I created a finger-painted world that revolves around you.

and after every 5th orbit the world, I built stopped.

I drew out possibilities of us that would never touch the present.

and after my mind could not be sharpened anymore, I could not draw out any more futures.

but instead, I wrote out what could have been.

I wrote poems, letters, books, journals...but while we ended my pieces did not.

My art still lives, and the patterns are dulling.

What is an artist to do with no muse, I drown in all of my pieces, each canvas, each blank space, each untouched page.

I tossed away paint brushes, pencils, unused ink, my creativity held nothing but dejection with each reminder.

I cannot write anymore.

I am not able to create, and writer's block is the least I can say.

and I snap my feet and I click my hands, and you're still not back again.

I put one in the air and paint myself every shade of blue and outline myself despondent.

and I remember the oceans of fluctuations I used to dip myself in and the compliments you left on my head by your lips, but we never kissed.

And the ocean is empty now, there's nothing to dip myself in, I am an artist who is blue with no muse.

and I'm left in a room of with every piece I ever created spiraling around me.

I sit and feel every color of emotion I ever painted out, I let the hues consume me.

I let the tones take me as I am.

As I put so much life into my creations and I watch my own emotions dance on the page

I think of the muse who inspired me to do so, my muse who is not here to drop inspiration.

My muse who changes the color of my soul.

My muse who I grieve, who's not dead, but isn't here anymore.

What is an artist to do without her muse.

you've been sitting in my head for a month now
the least you could do is scrub our memories off the
sides of my brain.
i pick the hairs that stand up whenever someone says your name.
Its like a cold breeze on the back of my neck
not refreshing
the kind that puts fear in your heart
as i walk down the street your shadow follows me
up until i make it back home, you’ll rest in my head
and i’ll never get any sleep
when i wake up in the morning your already there
still engraving your name into my brain
where the physical parts of you are still in your room
doing whatever it is your doing without me
and i can’t help but wonder
do i have my own room in your house of thoughts
do you go down our halls of memories
and fix the pictures frames that are slightly crooked with a faint smile.
hopefully everything isn’t packed up in boxes
labeled with the word fragile in red ink.
you’ve always been sitting in my head
you don’t have to trim the nostalgia off the branches
of our tree in the back yard.
i’ll sit under it and look up to see the sun-rays peak through
and with a blink of an eye
i pull myself out of my head and yearn for the day you come back home.

It is 5 minutes until 1:00 am, and I know my head will keep me up to 3.
my mind overwhelms itself.
and hates me for doing nothing about it.

It is now 1 and the same thoughts I had 5 minutes ago.
are now shown falling from my eyes, down my cheeks.
I am truly my worst enemy.
everyone talks about the healing process but not the dread.
that clanks around your ankles after.

I was a broken vase, not filled with roses or tulips.
Not loaded with water.
The pieces of glass, pieces of me I placed together.
(you can still see my cracks)
I am now an empty vase, and no one will grant me the presence of flowers.

It is now 11 minutes into 1 and happiness only pervaded-
when I went out with friends.
Is happiness just laughter and creating memories?
I guess I'll never know.

It is now 1:15
and I'm still not ok with anything I write.
I am still not ok with myself, at least I don't hate who she is anymore.
I am still not ok with how I love, how I express affection.
I am still not okay with how my mother treated me.
I'm not fine with anything at all.
No matter how many times I splatter my mind on these pages.
I won't feel okay.

I waited 16 years to finally feel something new, and at least I got what I wanted.
but this state of feeling and containing nothing is still familiar.

It is 1:30 
My mind is now vacant but only because I have occupied myself with creating.
Still disappointed with each piece I make.
It is the only outlet I have to escape from my experiences unless there’s a blunt
in my hand.
I do not wish for peace anymore, just a hand to hold and maybe a new lighter.
It has been 50 minutes, and I am still writing.

Still wishing to ring myself out like a drenched rag.
and to watch my thoughts, attempts, things I did, said, could have, wouldn't-
circle into a big puddle that dries away.
I know it is not that easy.
but to believe my placing here was not a mistake is hard.

7 minutes until 2
I feel slightly better, but the kind of better that will allow me to rest.
It is now 2:00, and I'm 358 words in, this poem will never be let out, and I am still here-

disconnected from myself and ambivalence fills the space in-between.

in my pockets are grains of hope, i keep my hands in my pockets when it gets cold. I think it's good to keep my hands warm, maybe I think it's bad to even let my pockets hold my cold hands. Disengage from the colorful writing, my hope sits upon my intellect and my actions are based upon it. In my flower accessorized tote bag holds my potential. Zipped up tightly and only taking the items out around it. I see how much volume it takes up in my bag, defiant when someone tells me to take it out and use it. Maybe naive to not understand how much of it is held in my bag. My bag is never far and always clutched to my side. Maybe i should empty my pockets and clean out my bag to witness the things i've kept inside for so long.