Nothing comes.
Not sleep or happiness.

I came out here to die,
To sniff paint fumes in the dark,
And nothing comes,
Not sleep or a vision,
Or a breath of fresh air.

I want to be clean,
But nothing comes.
Epiphanies or revelations
Or death.

I came out here to die,
To write poems and wish I were someone else,
To build myself a new life out of clay and paint,
And hope it holds up better than the one I built of glass
That cracked and shattered at the slightest vibration.

I'll never know how things could've been, should've been,
If they should've been at all,
Or what it feels like to fingerpaint,
Or do anything I want without feeling guilt.

Nothing comes.
Nothing.
Not a whisper,
Not a gentle kiss,
Not an angel with a paintbrush.

-November 4th, 2001-