artist’s curse

it is an artist’s curse

to hate the person

that belonged to yesterday

because the new sun

colors vibrant streaks

in monochrome

and dries the flower petals

like old, withered words

that never sound right.

it is jarring notes and

dissonant phrases and

words that do not stick together.

i need my hands to

cover my ears

over my eyes

and hold my heart.

i cannot read the words

i wrote yesterday

because that is not me.

so i let my words cake

on a blank canvas

never picking up my brushes

to make art.

i am afraid of meeting my soul

tomorrow.