wanting

i am sitting
unclothed, undone, unpretentious, and filed down
there is nothing here for rescuing
nothing that can prop me up
a hot shower will not wash me away
the way i fool myself it will.
there is dirt under my fingernails
muck in my hair
i walked through my day, world whirring blurredly around me,
and i am left here
wanting.

there are tears inside
welling up behind my fingers and toes
my eyes do not let them out
something died underneath
i cannot see through.
hollowness sneaks into me
piece by piece, tired, disappointed
filling me up with nothing
i am bursting with empty
and i am left here
wanting.

the background fades
wallpaper melts to grey
nothing feeds, nothing grows, nothing alters
stagnant air sticks in my throat
my lungs refill with recycled air i exhaled
there is nothing here for entertaining
the same reasons for the same questions with the same answers
as yesterday.
the world rolls on
as i am left here
wanting.

writer

i wish i wrote like e.e. cummings
showing life's aliveness in nonsense and incorrect grammar

i wish i wrote like f. scott fitzgerald
with something good and dark and tragic to say

i wish i wrote like shakespeare
poignant words perfectly placed on each profound page

i wish i wrote like maya angelou
offering blunt honesty with stark revelations of beauty

i wish i wrote like j.k. rowling
her gorgeous sweeping epic swells so intimately

i wish i wrote like my father
filling his sermons with humorous witty truths that make people cry

but here i am
and i write like me
which is who?