the lonely club

xvii

I  wish my eyes could paint canvases and murals

of breathtaking artwork like

in the magazines but my

eyes cold and dead only paint

pictures of struggle and pain

those are home to me, I can call

them my own

I wish I was passionate enough

to draw eye catching art pieces but

my hand only scribbles out incoherent phrases

and ramblings

incomplete sentences and words used

in the wrong diction

I wish I was old enough to

realize the mind and soul

behind every piece that my eyes lay

upon, but I only seem to

drive down this endless road

of misery

I wish I was twelve again and could

write about my first intimate moment

but now all I write about

is boys and sadness

and that doesn't

complete my

s o u l