It is not the blue of an empty stomach,
But rather the gray of an empty soul.
It is the touch of rain clouds on wanting fingers,
Reaching out to grab something insubstantial,
It is the pale thirst for inspiration,
The itchy sensation and the rattling emptiness at the core.
Forever parched, forever starved.
It is the starless night whose clouds block the view to the heavens,
And wrap the moon in their suffocating embrace.
It is the room whose doors are never opened and
Whose windows are never peered out of.
It is the path that was never trodden and
The photo frame that was never filled.
There on the edge of it all
Sits a faded little bird, perched on a windowsill
Fearing the open air.
Just a little poem I had hastily written a while back. Let me know what you think!