They looked at her
With disgust in their eyes.
"She's an artist" they said
But she could not disguise,
The pain she dealt with
Every night at home.

Her mother was working
And her father wasn't involved,
She kept slipping away to the voices,
Listening to their every sound.

And then he came.

He looked at every imperfection,
And saw the beauty in her.
He admired every piece if artwork,
By paint brush and blade.
She never failed to impress a crowd,
By people or demons.

But, not all stories have a happy ending.
For he left,
And so did she.

It came swiftly,
Like the absent whisper of the wind.
I think they call it love.

They always said,
That love was just a man-made emotion
To fill the empty years.

Then it struck me, like a 15 ton truck
He was there. He was beautiful.
And then,
He was mine.