Sitting at a Table, Rapping Fingers

The snapping of twigs,

Like so many fingers cracking,

Imbedded in the background of my day.

Tiny tickings,

Hollow harbingers of black and white,

And things with emptied meaning,

Sound as if through a vacant yellow hallway,

With scraps of poster still holding,

Desperately to the paint.

I'm thinking of the Hurt,

Glass half full stuff,

Of how efficiently grey the sky has been today,

Not one opening to speak of.

So I've been wanting to ask You,

Do I hurt more than I give?

What do I create? Joy or pain?

SnapSnapSnap.