I can't stop
writing about you.
I can't stop
Looking at your picture
on my bedside table,
And I can't stop imagining
what would have happened
if you would have lived.

You are a constant
Void in my mind,
A constant disturbance,
But I'll cry the day you leave me.

you
   make me crazy.
your
   tasseled hair,
your
   careless smile.
everything.

sometimes, it's in addiction.
and sometimes, i want it all to stop.

she paints away her worries,
her doubts,
her fears.

whatever she wants,
whatever she sees,
she'll paint it.

if it's a tree,
a house,
a child,
no matter;
she jumps at the chance
of creating a masterpiece.

the painter lifts up her brush,
and paints nothing.

[only in her dreams
does she paint somethings]

she wishes for everything
to disappear.

she wants to sell her work,
and make a profit.
but she can't.
no matter how hard she tries,
she is never good enough.
and that's
         how it will stay.

he walks up to me,
focused, still,
only saying what he's remembers;
what he needs to say.

he doesn't speak to me,
but to an old woman beside him.

his overalls drape over
his big, broad shoulders.
his silver-blue eyes
sting my soul,
digging deep into my heart.

even though i have never seen
this man before,
he interests me deeply.

he drives away, but
only for a moment
or two.

he's seen children pass,
but that only makes him stronger.

although,
the thing i love the most
is his sweet,
tangy,
southern drawl.