I tend to the battered outline of my heart,
Meticulously shaping it to an acceptable form.
Maybe then, I tell myself; maybe then.
I dip dingy shreds of newspaper into the mix,
Fingers shaking as I apply each new bandaid.
I recklessly blow the fragile fragments dry,
Picking up the brush to color myself anew.
But my impatience wreaks havoc on my art.
Through blurry eyes and unsteady hands
I pierce a hole, watching as color spills out,
Bleeding haphazard lines down the canvas.
Anxiety rises to my throat as panic sets in.
The pressure rises; I have only moments
Before I am too far gone, the reminder rings.
I try to patch the mess that I have created,
Layering and layering and layering some more.
Another miscalculation, another hole.
I patch - another hole - I patch - yet another.
Frustration kicks in, my efforts seem wasted
But I continue on; I must finish, I say.
My hands work feverishly but I cannot see,
Cannot bear to witness my monstrosity.
Until anger boils my blood at my uselessness
And in a blurred rage my hands sink in,
Crumpling my last hope at self revival.
Only to find that it would never dry
With rain pouring overhead from my eyes.
