I wanted to revise this before posting, but...

...I'm sort of stuck with it. So it's the same one on my blog...

bitter bright empty insides wake you before the morning
(innards drained out slowly seeping)
and it begins with the tip of the toe as it touches the floor.
quietly, the silence asks for more.

you are not
not it, not what, not that
I am not what you are,
nor is anyone else, not enough.

explain this now:
the silence that asks for more.
the empty innards, secretly cruel,
the wordless works that hide under your tongue.
explain this loss, this lack, this un-being,
not-knowing,
anti-power.

I cannot flesh this to its truth
but hew it roughly from a block of wood
or tie it roughly up in yarn
or spread it on a canvas and pick the meaning out.
the splinters are the chaos, truth most natural and pure
and the split threads only instincts and
muddy pools of paint the mystery.

mystery and instinct and anger most natural
as the empty innards that wake you before dawn
and the questions
and the weakness simply a cycle
explain it like a tree that dies
and grows again,
far away in a thousand places.