I only want one masterpiece.
This frenzy isn't art.
I sit alone each holiday;
a noose around my heart.

It's getting easier to pull,
to tighten with each year,
but even if it suffocates,
the void won't disappear.

Remember when I said the air
of winter breathes slow death,
and how the lights on Christmas trees
are screaming, "nothing's left"?
I may not tell you why the snow,
so pure and simply white,
controls the rings around my eyes
when I don't sleep at night.

My inspiration promises
to never let me go.
It's part of my anatomy,
distorting what I know.
Contorting once clear images,
it's pushing them away;
opening my deepest wounds,
creating a display.

And every time I see the stars
atop gold-tinseled trees,
my stomach tries to eat itself
to grind those memories.

I only want one masterpiece,
but every word is wrong.
Some artists wake the motionless,
and others don't belong.