i was a preteen
i slept amongst the fading sound of a whipperwill
an energetic bird that seemingly lives upon a metabolism
sleepless and comparitive to the hum of those smaller
and nectarful...

staring at an infinite canvas--
insatiable hunger,
the sense of starvation unknown
to castaways
a feeling i didn't want to dream.
my gut felt as though , to readily
ingest the ability to think itself,
and ravenous on the air that my lung
could only induct,

my only immediate sight in this
whipperwill delusion...

a blank canvas, and the stare..
glazed with dehydrated eyes
eager for expression,
paint me,paint me,paint me
show me

to expell the hunger of creativity

i awoke to recreate impressionism
using only white paint..
to exaggerate brushstroke, and a bead of light
against surface