It was supposed to be about running water,

How impossible it is to capture on paper

With a brush dipped in white and a touch of blue.

How it flows in my mind and in the photographs,

Which I usually copy so well (everything I do is a copy)

But when daubed on it looks solid, like snow,

Like a mistake I tried to white out,

Devoid of that crashing through space that makes my heart gasp,

Soundless, solid, and rigid with pretenses.

How can it be so white and so clear at the same time?

How can it change?

It is incapturable, fleeting, living on only in the mind, not for sharing,

But does that make it more real, or less?

People say I ask too many questions, that I talk to fast, too loud,

That I never shut cupboard doors,

That if I stopped being so…you know, then I could catch some love.

But I don't want to catch love, like a baseball player or a rescuer,

I want to find it, for it to find me,

I want it to be even less capturable than my running water, because it is

Less real in the world, and therefore more real inside,

Than my failed paint on paper.

I want to be able to capture sorrow and

Fear and

Pain and

Joy and

Love and

Beauty and

Ecstasy all in the same five notes of one song,

But that's already been done, and I'm tired of being nothing but a

Follow-up to previous greatness.

Yes, I guess I'm just tired of being a follow-up,

Of being told I matter and knowing that I don't,

Of struggling to create and then crumpling my efforts into balls of dead dreams,

Recycled, maybe into something new.

I guess I'm just tired, but something's keeping me awake,

Like crickets chirping on warm summer nights; something must keep us all awake.

I don't want it to stop.

"These are the stairs," you said. "They go up."

Unless, of course, you're going down,

In which case they lead to the very bottom.

I guess it's all a matter of perspective,

Like whether you think I'm beautiful

Or just average.

(I guess I know I'm just average, but I still want to hear you say those words.)

It was supposed to be about life,

But instead it was about running water, my paintbrush trembling,

His indifferent face, the five notes I was told to love, summer nights,

The staircase that goes up to your room,

And my utter expendability.

These words will fade, my thoughts will fade,

Incapturable, fleeting, private in essence.

Does that make it more real?

Or less?

I ask too many questions.