The only time I'd picked up a paintbrush
With real intent
Was to spill out the
Metaphorical mess churning inside of myself
And so it did come out
The shit browns and the blood
Shot-blood-reds
Of the eyes and veins
The dark silhouette of a faceless man
The image of myself from a past life
All of it cracking down the middle
And cinders and ash haphazardly placed
Sloppy and infantile
All of it lacking meaning yet
Desperately yearning for one
That the creator herself could not give it
But instead she,
I leave it
To its own pathetic cry
An echo of fruitless dabbling
Much like everything else she,
I have tried.

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