Art is a hammer
There is nothing wrong with me
   that some attention cannot solve
Why I need attention so much
Is the hammer used against my art
Inspiration may come sleeting
But the result is still black ice
Invisible, dangerous, imagined or real
There is no music in my head
Or in my heart
That hasn't arrived from
Someone else's life, love, pain
That hasn't been expressed
In the words of some writer
Who at least managed to string
Sentences together
In a real story
Perhaps because my story isn't told
I have no ending to arrive at
Success, money, travel, change
Things I do not foresee
Even true love eludes me
No balcony scenes, no sonnets
No roses or suicide attempts
Many empty words, echoing
Art is a hammer
I don't have

Still writing as though
I was fourteen
heartbroken
lonely
Melodramatic

Forgetting all that I have
Comfort
Books
Family
Knowledge

Forgetting because I don't have
Your attention
You are not part of my toolbox
Like art
You elude my abilities
Whether I need you or not
Whether the nail exists
Or has purpose