I lost all my genius that night.

And all the colors of my mind

ran away,

and fell

to an indiscriminate gray.

All my exploding canvases

woke up and decided

to go away.

And all my poems are now written in a sad,

empty light.

No more fight.

No more sight.

No more little smiles;

a sad broken heart,

in the emptiness of night.

My Toulouse-Lautrec died in a train wreck.

My Dylan Thomas drank himself to death.

And oh, my Van Gogh

eventually gave up,

realizing his Gauguin had gone.

But more than that,

My Beethoven,

stuck his head in that

Sylvia Plath

“I don’t care anymore” oven.

The music that comes from

your soul

is so unlike mine.

Because I know

it’s all a matter of time.

I don’t think you should bandage my wrists anymore

because my planet, baby,

has been rocked to its fatal core.

Hope always falls down and gets hurt.

Spinning around, I fall down,

face down in the dirt.