Salpicar o teu rosto com farinha, enquanto preparassemos juntos o teu bolo favorito
Dar-te os beijos que me apetecesse, com os olhos, sempre que estivesses distraido a apreciar o "flowering tea", que te desse a escolher
Sentar-me no teu colo e ver-te desenhar
Fazer de ti a manta que me aconchega, entrelaçar os meus dedos nos teus e ver um filme até adormecer
Levar-te o pequeno almoço à cama e acordar-te com um beijo de bom dia.
a única a conseguir te arrancar aquele sorriso nos piores momentos...
a bateria desenfreada a bater dentro do teu peito...
a tua melhor amiga...
quem faz valer cada acordar teu.
Que fosses a excepção que acreditei que eras, o porto seguro por quem vale a pena esperar para partilhar a vida.
Por ti... por nós... mudei, ignorei medos e arrisquei...
Não deste valor... desacreditei.
To kiss you secretly, with my eyes, whenever you would be distracted enjoying the flowering tea of your choice
Sit on your lap and see you drawing
Make you the blanket that cuddles me, entwine my fingers in yours and watch a movie until we fall asleep
To wake you up with a good morning kiss and have breakfast in bed with you
To be the one, to be the only one that makes you smile in the harsh moments, to be the cause of a unrestrained drums that beat inside your chest, to be your best friend, to be the one who makes it worth for you to wake up every day.
I wanted, I believed that you were the exception, the safe harbour for whom it is worth waiting for to share a life.
For you ... for us ... I changed, I ignored my fears and risked it all...
I'm an artist they say...
I painted my illusions of dreams
I drew on a smile everyday,
I was happy, so it seemed
But my palette ran low
As my colors faded grey
Now my life holds on by a thread
And I'm just fighting just to stay
Because as the days go on,
I let these colors bleed through.
From my paper to my skin,
I'm nothing but red, black, and blue.
I turned myself into a canvas
Trying to describe this strife
But it wasn't beautiful at all
For my paintbrush was a knife
And my paintings are nothing but
empty promises of what we once knew
The only color left in my life
Are my memories of you
It was February 6th, the boy could taste the wood in his teeth
Had a bad habit, of a pencil, and biting on it
It was history class, in boredom the boy could pass
A blank page, for a bored mind like his in its own cage
The page screaming, for him to fulfill it with a drawing
A rock and a girl,
Seemingly in her own world
The boy had drawn a stranger, and although he had made her
And she had come from his thoughts, her, he didn't know lots of
It was interesting, he had made a character, perhaps story teller
Couldn't tell what she was thinkin', or who she was even
It was as if this image he'd made, had its own thoughts that would fade
Just like the rock, and the girl
Both drawn in pencil, would eventually fade leaving a mere sample
The page that was once empty, was fulfilled simply,
With the vision of a portrait, that by looking at it, it stood still
Yet anyone who interpret it carries, their own series of stories
However, to the boy she looked quite sad, maybe because he has what she never had
The ability of speaking, breathing, living, after all she is just a drawing
Maybe she seats on the rock with thoughts that are existential, as she realizes she is drawn in pencil
How does one describe something that has so much more meaning than anything there has ever been?
I am not able to have one underlying emotion for art.
I am not sure there even is one emotion that i have not faced when
I make, take in, or feel some type of art.
It is everything to me.
"Art is the only way to run away without leaving home."
When I make any piece of artwork, it takes me away,
and I have never had that feeling other than when
I have a paintbrush or pencil between my fingers.
When i need to stop my own little world and get away from everything, I make something.
Art seems to be the only form of communication
I desire to use when showing emotions.
I get anxiety when i have to show so much vulnerability as to do something as simple as /talking/ to someone about my problems.
If I could just show someone my artwork instead of speak,
I would choose that any day.
"She is delightfully chaotic;
a beautiful mess.
Loving her has been a splendid adventure."
I guess in some ways i see art as a person.
The only true love I have ever really felt would be with art.
I have been hurt many times and I have always
turned to art because of it.
Shes always been there for me,
while others have let me down time after time again.
Yet she waits there patiently everyday
until I pick up the sketchbook