Have you ever looked at someone and thought that they aren't completely good-looking, but they're so attractive like a raw form of art, and even emptiness?

People tell you to move on to the next (and real, pure) form of art but you see potential in this raw one, and you just want to watch that change; watch that space be filled up.

You think of that emptiness as something, because nothing is still something, no matter how paradoxical or illogical it seems.

You want to witness the metamorphosis and you believe that it will change before your eyes, so you watch close and just believe.

It's taking me awhile to move on to see more but this raw art piece really has taken the highlight exhibit in my art museum of a mind.

Maybe because I'm an artist, I'm positive about this and I just keep hoping I could witness the change, if not be the artist to do the change myself.

A certain raw art form in my life has been changing; I'm not able to observe closely but to hear about it is more than enough and relieves me.

To you who is reading this, we don't settle for the perfect in reality. In truth, there isn't a perfect in reality. We aren't all artists by profession or by the definition of 'artists', but once one learns to look at people this way, one can be an artist.

An artist believes, accepts, and appreciates; finding beauty in everything. Once you find beauty in even the most simple, mundane or raw form of art, you find the artist in you.

The right person,
the wrong time!
The right script,
the wrong line!
the right poem,
the wrong rhyme!
and a piece of you,
that was never mine

Collapsing under its own gravity,
The sun dies a little every day.
Every morning is a reminder,
Of its resilience,
Every night a tale of its loss.

A star shines brightest,
The more closer to death it gets,
Every constellation is a reminder,
that art wears melancholy the best.

Leaning in for a kiss,
The moon creates ripples in the sea's heart
Always reaching out, but never touching,
Every full moon is a reminder,
That it's possible to find contentment
While still longing.

You might have seen them through the window,
a little girl pouting on the stool and her mother
behind her, deft fingers weaving the strands
together, chocolate hair in french braids and the
wrinkles in her blue gingham dress.

There is a beginning to everything.

Golden-hair boy, caramel colors glinting in the sun,
pieces that flopped over his eyes and plastered
themselves over his forehead when the wind blew
erratic. He wears t-shirts streaked with dirt and high-
water jeans half-rolled, half-bunched up to his knees.

She thought, I could love this boy.

They're in the field again, ankles itching under her
frilly socks and ants crawling over her shoes. He lets
one amble around on his finger while she studies him.
Holding it up to the light, all serious and squinting,
He whispers, "They are so small."

She remembers this field for a long time.

She points to his heart. This is where I live. He looks
at her skeptically, raises an eyebrow."Is it awfully
uncomfortable there?" She lets the silence grow while
the birds make conversation and smiles to herself when
she sees him listening too.

Sometimes it is cold, but then you remember me.

There are pieces of love scattered around this world.
I have been trying to find them, trying to arrange them
into a comprehensible hope. There's the field. There's the
beach. There's the little stream that carries us where we
need to go. There's you, in that one summer.

It's been so long, but I remember. I remember it perfectly.

She's making a daisy chain while he looks out over the
lake. Climb the tree for me. I want to see how high you
can go. Nearly breaking the branches with his weight, he
calls out, in the purest joy you've ever heard to this day.
"You should see this view!"

*I do.

So many lines and laments
scribed in ink and feeling,
for the girl who is the ocean

but she is a swell and surge
too dauntless and wild,
for a lover whose bones crave the shore.

She craves the squalls and gusts,
and cast iron skies,
a worldly drift to sate the salt in her skin,
the deep pull of currents in her blood.

She is chaotic but not reckless,
she is fickle, but not feckless.
Love her boldly or not at all
her bones belong to the sea
but she will always return to the shore.

I hope I'm not too
Obvious
I hope you're not too
Oblivious