I've always thought I loved storms;
Where the rain beats against my window,
Wind wailing, thunder rumbling,
Lightning painting streaks
Across the sky.
There's nothing like standing underneath
The angry clouds
And letting the cold rain
Wash all of your sins away.

I've always thought I was in love
With the sky;
The way it surprises me every day
In its spectrum of
Resplendent colors and soft greys.
Personified in my adoration
As maybe God himself,
If God even exists.
To this day, I'm not so sure,
But I know the sky and that's
Enough.

But as I wonder about these things,
These forces of nature,
I wonder about the circumstances
Surrounding my experiences with them.
I remember that, in the midst of storms,
I always have a home to run into
And a towel waiting for me to dry me off.
I remember that while the sky is
Ever changing,
It always remains there.

So maybe what I've always loved,
What I've always longed for,
Is comfort.

Is... stability.

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.