Still Talking
Starving Little Artist
Hey starving little artist
Are you hungry enough yet?
Have you whittled down; small enough so there’s nothing left but a muse that clings to those stark white bones?
Petrified tree branches as limbs, no leaves or colors left
Has your stomach churned and ached
Has the pit been hollowed out?
Until there’s nothing but the words, bouncing in a dark empty tomb
You can’t be full and keep the rest of them fed
Hey starving little artist
Are you grotesque in your appeal?
Have you laid down on broken, jagged rocks, bled your skin dry in an effort for rest
A rest that’ll bring you a nightmare
Someone will call it an inspiration
For their already full and warm hearths
Have you painted beauty in that blood?
Some will scorn, some will admire
Either way, you need to bleed,
they need to see pictures in the cracks of your skin
Or they’ll lock you in a room, door closed
For which they never made a key
Hey, starving little artist
Are you cold enough yet?
Has the wind and rain chipped away at your trembling fingers
Have you heard their clapping, faded and quiet - but present
You’ve no right to complain
They’ve taken your hands, you’ll feast on their mild amusement
And you’ll say thank you for it through chapped, weathered lips
Hey starving little artist
Are you dead?
Have they sucked your soul, your unearned wisdom of your passion
Taken it for themselves so they can craft it into pillows
And lay down comfortable in the silk you wove for them
You’ve never felt something so soft in your life
But it is enough to watch them, they will tell you
And you will say thank you for the view, through a barred window
in a dark keyless room
Hey starving little artist,
Is there any part of you left?
Have you given it all to the glass eyes, unblinking as they soak in your misery
Your quiet pain is their favorite story, you know
Hey starving little artist,
You’re just a ghost now
But that is okay
Ghost stories are the best ones to tell
Blue
I call the time between sunset and night time blue
It is the worst time to lay in bed
Alone
Without the lights on
It paints the entire room in this grainy color
My bed feels like a life raft
The walls become dark water
I feel the blue cover me, too
I can lift up my hand and see the hues against my skin
We are the same, it likes to remind me
Not vibrant
Lifeless
Still and quiet
In my hair and my nose, my mouth and chest
I am too tired to flick on the lamp
Well, at least for a little while
But I’m still a baby
The dark still scares me
Because in the blue I can make out the shapes
And put a face to the shadows
There is nothing like that in the dark
I fill the blanks in with my worst memories
That I cannot accept
Yellow light
Fake and cherry
But at least I can see my face again
Breathing, not a corpse
Not a faceless outline
Present, and fake, and alive
The blue leaves my skin
But it’s still a part of me
Just like the sky is blue even when the sun can’t be seen
I reflect the yellow light as the sky reflects the sun
Neither of us ever change
But what you see does
And sometimes, for a second
It can trick my eyes as well
