I've always wanted to be an artist.
To have my words go with the desirable flow of the readers interpretable mindset and for them to say, "wow this girl is so mesmerizing."
But how can I do that with thick colossal storm clouds raging in my mind striking lightning on any rational sanity I might have left.

I wanted to be an artist.
To have the beauty from my eyes spill on to the blank canvas like the over flow of a dam carving water through the valleys to make its own distinguishable beauty. For people to see it and just feel the damaged perfection that had been sculpted into my impeccable masterpiece.

But how can I be an artist
When the only words people can read are the defeated thoughts my mind passed through.

When the only things spilling on a canvas is my tears and they evaporate unlike the strong mold of the gulf.

When the only damaged perfection is maintained in a porcelain complexion.

I wanted to be an artist.
But how can I.

Not for all eternity
Will sadness streak my cheek
Or curve me with a sightless weight
That bows my kneecaps weak.

Nor evermore shall I mourn
A departure so abrupt,
A constant fixture in my world
From it, so sudden plucked.

Even all time, so short and long
I dare not wish nor pine
Each blessed day that passes by
Each night would ease my mind.

But for  lasting moment
Each smile, each laugh, each breath
The memories shall hold me now
No longer left bereft.

Words are not always compiled into heart stopping love letters.

Memories do not always spur intoxicating nostalgia.

The sky is not always that awe inspiring shade of baby blue perfection.

Crayons are not always yellow.

Sometimes, they are black.

Sometimes, darkness is the ideal absence of color needed to complete the masterpiece.