Can you feel it right now?
The development of something quite wow
You called me a wave,
I leave the shore, come back, and save
You from this state
I call it fate
I describe myself as a tide
I thought you could confide
In this tidal wave of emotion
Derived from the ocean

Through this lens, I look at a flower
Magenta in colour.
Snap.
Further along the flowerbed, I see a red rose,
Its petals immaculate.
Snap.
As the Canon focuses,
As each pixel becomes clearer and more vivid,
And colours more vibrant, I
Snap, snap, snap.
Through my lens, I turn the camera and
Observe your ****** expression;
What do I see?
Snap.

A silence drawn by the fingers, and drawn from the mind.
Every emotion is awakened in a slumbering poem that once was silenced by an oppressor.
And "who is the oppressor?" you may ask.
The same selfish dictator that allows empty words to evaporate into the air, and denies the floral mind from blossoming.

Slouched on the bed, legs bent up,
The laptop face beaming.
I just gaze at the screen.
This emotionless laid-back stance makes me think
I'm fresh out of a bath, hair wet,
How relaxed my body feels still.
The heat filled my body like that cup
Of jasmine green tea on my bedside.
Curls are forming at the bottom of my hair;
As they always tend to.
I sit here, no thrill.
As I was en route home,
I had the breeze lashing on my skin,
The wind and the spitting rain,
Splattering on my coat.
It normally creates an illusion of polkadots,
And makeup blackens my cheeks.
I squint to see,
Somehow I prefer this feeling.
Exhilaratingly breathless,
Uplifted and exhausted.
But yet, I am sat here.
Glaring into a screen.

I utterly adore the way
You say what you say.
And you inspire me
In more ways than one.
It's the simpler way of expressing
These undue feelings.
Little do I understand my own
Although I try.
But writing about it, singlehandedly,
Enables me a power.
You write with your fingers
But this feels incomparable.
Every word seems to
Divulge your clever thoughts.
I want to be as open as you,
Yet as passionate too.
As good,
As loved.

It's like all those emotions I'd read about:
The artistic, pompous, ostentatious words on a page.

Distorted human feelings,
Showing the imperfection of our design.

Images of bones, hearts, skin,
Every inner and outer thing that makes us this material being.

We could have perfectly soft skin,
But the most un-soft thoughts.

A harsh, "ugly" exterior,
But the most enchanting heart.

I can't even define what ugly means,
Because we're all art and perception.

And no art, no matter what,
Is that.