i am mad.

i tried to capture you on canvas,
to paint away my thousand thoughts,

each stroke held so much weight
each line read so heavy.
my canvas became slathered with consonants,
my characters curled into words,
my words combined like compositions,
and I, a man caught under current
craved for concrete at my soul.
i felt my easel strain underneath
the gravity of my yearning,
my brushes shatter
at the frenzy of my hunger
but i continued to
to smear crimsons onto canvas,
consciousness onto cloth.

and with my sanguine stained fingers,
i sank into canisters of conversations
into cauldrons of could-have-beens,
and spread them across my walls,
until secrets slid down my arms,
and whispers puddled
into pools against my feet.
no corner was left unmarked.
no canister left unspilled.
but still I could not
find a way to complete you.
i spilled myself into cans
and spread myself against
thoughts of you
layer against layer
until my paint ran thin
and as I came to my knees
with my arms to my sides
I gazed up at the entirety,
of my insanity,
and understood.
how could i have hoped to capture,
what i had never really known
in the first place?