I\'m running on empty
The palette is dry, the pigments have thinned,
I’m casting my brush at a hollow wind.
I used to see visions in shades of the soul,
Now the canvas is fractured, losing control.
They stand in the gallery, cold and precise,
Naming the failure, assigning the price.
They measure my spirit by lines they define,
Tracing the edges of what isn’t mine.
And in their sharp gaze, the colors go gray—
The light in my fingers is fading away.
I’m running on empty, a ghost in the frame,
Tired of playing this critical game.
I’m searching for black, I’m searching for white,
But everything blurs in the dead of the night.
It isn’t a spectrum, it isn’t a choice,
It’s the quiet erosion of finding my voice.
How much is left? I’m starting to fray,
Holding the pieces together all day.
I paint for the mirror, I paint for the wall,
But I’m tired of standing, so ready to fall—
Not because I have lost how to see,
But because I am losing the version of me.