Wanting to be discovered
down to the deepest parts,
to have everything known
and still not forgotten.
Not compliments,
but questions.
Not to be desired,
but wondered about.
Not a problem to solve,
a soul to understand.
Not cold, just distant.
Not shallow, but deep.
You stand there looking at me,
but distance changes nothing.
No one becomes yours
just from being watched.
The eyes love beauty,
the mind loves understanding,
but the soul only loves
what resembles itself.
Some things need time
before they bloom.
If everything happened instantly,
nothing would feel valuable.
Not faces, but souls
become ugly.
People chosen like colors
from a palette.
And from above,
everything looks like art.
Let there be art
inside your eyes.
Look into hazel eyes,
touch brown hair.
A forest somewhere around us,
branches moving in the wind,
someone climbing a tree
just to be remembered.
How can something be ugly
when somebody once loved it?
A face a mother smiles at,
a face where someone found beauty.
Not harsh, just principled.
Not bad, but good.
Too deep to see the ending,
blue like the sky before rain.
Not a problem to solve,
a soul to understand.
You stand there looking,
but distance still remains.
Not faces, but souls
become ugly.
People arranged like colors
inside somebody else’s painting.
And maybe all of this
was art from the beginning.
Some things need time
before they bloom.
If they arrived too quickly,
they would never stay precious.
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 10:13 AM UTC
Wanting to be discovered
down to the deepest parts,
to have everything known
and still not forgotten.
Not compliments,
but questions.
Not to be desired,
but wondered about.
Not a problem to solve,
a soul to understand.
Not cold, just distant.
Not shallow, but deep.
You stand there looking at me,
but distance changes nothing.
No one becomes yours
just from being watched.
The eyes love beauty,
the mind loves understanding,
but the soul only loves
what resembles itself.
Some things need time
before they bloom.
If everything happened instantly,
nothing would feel valuable.
Not faces, but souls
become ugly.
People chosen like colors
from a palette.
And from above,
everything looks like art.
Let there be art
inside your eyes.
Look into hazel eyes,
touch brown hair.
A forest somewhere around us,
branches moving in the wind,
someone climbing a tree
just to be remembered.
How can something be ugly
when somebody once loved it?
A face a mother smiles at,
a face where someone found beauty.
Not harsh, just principled.
Not bad, but good.
Too deep to see the ending,
blue like the sky before rain.
Not a problem to solve,
a soul to understand.
You stand there looking,
but distance still remains.
Not faces, but souls
become ugly.
People arranged like colors
inside somebody else’s painting.
And maybe all of this
was art from the beginning.
Some things need time
before they bloom.
If they arrived too quickly,
they would never stay precious.