Picasso, Leonardo

Neruda, and Bukowski

They will all lose

And see

The real art from me.

I’m not referring

to my love-sick poetry

Or stories of

tragedy and insanity.

I’m referring to one thing,

Something only I possess

Even the moon, waxing and waning,

Will shy away and brighten less.

It’s the art of you,

It’s your gentle hue.

Your Mona Lisa soul

Defeats Picasso blue.

Museums can’t take you,

The galaxy and stars too.

Art to be kept so true,

In my heart you will certainly do.

To be human is to love

To love is to be broken

To be broken is to experience beauty

To be beautiful is to sacrifice

Skin. Hair. Eyes. Body. Heart.

All these will change. Die.

But later on, you’ll go back

To being human

And you’ll go back to loving

You will be broken

You will experience beauty

The cycle won’t repeat

Because you know being broken

has its own kind of beauty

She’s clothed naked

Naked to the world

The cold seeped through her

Warming every vein in her body

She shed a leaf, proving her point

The sky answered back, breaking a joint

She shed another one, a petal of her frozen beauty

The trees turned a blind eye, so they won’t have to see

She has given quite enough, she couldn’t shed anymore

It’s time for her to wait

He slowly left

Leaving her empty

“Why?” she asked

He never looked back

But she knew the answer

The more he says,

The more she’ll get hurt

The longer he stays,

The more she’ll have nothing left of her.

Because he is the winter

And she’s just a delicate flower