My darling, my child, my canvas,
lays unfinished, untouched, unloved.
It sulks next to the growing cobwebs,
Latching from the frame to the windowsill.
I glare towards my darling, barely noticed in the corner of my eye,
An edge of moonlight caressing its darker sides.
My heart aches to tend to her, to show her that I’m doing alright,
Yet, I cannot fathom such a lie,
My body is tired, my soul drained, and my wallet moreso.
Fatigue holds me down, almost pinned to the floor,
Yet my obligations force me up, just enough to allow me to survive.
My child glares at me, starved for attention,
Longing for paint to stimulate its creativity.
Worlds awaited to be born on the stitched linen,
People awaited to be immortalized on the stretched cotton,
Life itself awaited to blossom on the tainted purity of the dirty canvas.
But my body does not move, it has no sustenance.
My mind cannot think, it has nothing left to give.
My fire has gone out, no longer can it be invoked.
My brush is too dry, no paint could latch on.
Short nights and long days,
Only serves to remind me of my eternal cycle.
I need to rest, to work in the morning.
I need to eat, to work in the evening.
I need to drink, to work on the weekends.
Four hours left till work,
Five months I’ve contemplated with my art,
And only Six feet to bury a body.
A dark suggestion, a longing to go no further than this,
Gnaws at my being, forcing tears out of an empty well.
Once we were both brimming with potential,
Two beings of pure passion,
But we are now we are just two things close to the end,
one to be unfulfilled and one to be dead.
All I do for my dear canvas, that will never be called a painting,
And all I did for myself,
For a passion that cannot be sustained.
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