i enter each room in this house
and over the course of perhaps a month
i spend what it takes to claw at the barren
walls and i claw scratch until my fingers
ache, my nails scrape free and i burn
art into these walls often so ugly
it falls short of poetic but the artistry
is still there

feeling sick of hope i move across the
hall and claw at pride only to find
my fingers can take no more and the
walls are nearly crimson instead of white

the art has passed from room to room
for these five months and i’m beginning to wonder
if there are any empty spaces on walls
in rooms i’ve already visited or

if there are any rooms i’ve yet to step into
perhaps another den, another kitchen,
i’d kill for living room to bleed on for a while

i’m afraid most of the restrooms are now free
of dry wall and standing mere skeletons of
wood and electrical wire