I know how the painter feels

When he sits in front of his blank canvas

And stares right through it,

Wishing for an image to form

As he thinks of her.

Swimming through the starkest white,

Hands grasping uselessly at the walls,

Falling down, down

Into unfathomable

Monotony.

Where the only company is absent

But with you the whole time.

A permanent resident of your mind

Making sure to twist the thorn

Deeper into your side.

And you want to scream out,

Break the bleak white into pieces.

But you can only sit with yourself,

Waiting for time to pass

Though there is no clock.

I know how the painter feels

When he slashes his canvas to ribbons,

Tearing the white from his mind.

Who can blame him?

The worst company you can have is yourself.