And here's the hard part-I have nothing to say,
no message I want to deliver. No story to tell, no
dream to convey, no characters I need to limn.
There's only myself, that's all that I know, and
I'm never too certain of that. And by now, after years of
describing myself in any of several disguises, even
I am bored with my self-absorption, and haven't the
will to continue.
I still have the tools, the words and the brushes,
I know how to do the job, but I might as well apply
the paint to myself and crayon my excellent parts,
and see if I can make the heart stone glister while
hiding the sprouting profusion of warts. Put blue
on my heart and the rest crimson red and howl
at the waxing moon, less the lone wolf than a damned
fool dog, a hound self-taught to dance.