He sings to keep himself from dying.
To stop his lungs
from consuming him from the inside out.
His soul threatens to crawl up his throat,
out his body,
and he plugs his mouth with words.
He paints so that he will not disappear.
He buries his long fingers
into the colors,
grasping and groping and pulling and yearning,
so that he will manifest,
leave his echoes and fingerprints
He fabricates stories to hold on to something,
pulls people closer with vibrant nothings
whispering to call them in,
offering endless musings he never expects
to have believed.
As if he can re-write
his own existence.