There is a hunger I can't quench,
An addiction I can't subside.
An itch that burns under my skin
And I've tried scratching it.
I've tried.

I want that pretty silver tongue
To match pretty porcelain hands
Hovering over ink wells
And candle stands
But I can't have that.
I can't salvage
From the depths of my mind
A poem to wrap around words like
"Gossamer",
"Murmurous",
"Erstwhile".

Art is a circle
But I am a line with crumbling architecture,
My thoughts linear and grit;
My prose stuffed with an hour-long process
Of charm and wit.

I write these words to feed you;
Please you;
Fill you with the sense of understanding
That I can't come to.
My art is a lie with a rainbow
And I stand smiling in an empty room,
A vacant audience in a ghost of a show.

I write because I need you.
I write because I want to dance for you.
I write because I want to seem wise.
But all that it amounts to
Is a high that always dies
And a candle that burns out
Far too quickly.

This is not a cry.
This is not goodbye.
This is me.
And I hope, for me,
That this is enough to satisfy.