Her brush slides
across the paper.
As she looks down
at the creation,
Her face filled with
Pain.
Sorrow.
Lonliness.
She is searching......
As the brush spreads
black paint...
She stares down,
Upon the artwork.
Unable,
to find.
What she is looking for.

stain her lips with your kisses,
but do not paint her face with your anger.
rage does not fit in romance,
too many letters have gone missing,
and too many souls gone silent.
let her skin be canvas untouched,
caressed out of love for the unknown,
stroked with a soft touch.
forget what callused the tips of your bristles -
there will always be another sunset to capture tomorrow,
and an artist is nothing without good supplies and good ideas.
but she is not a paintbrush,
a tool you get to control -
make her your muse instead of a tattered sketchbook page.
take her weeping from the background of a dark forest,
to the foreground of the sun rising on a soft-sanded new tomorrow -
take her into your arms,
mold her sweetly, gently into your heart,
and allow the clay to harden and heal any cracks still exposed.
a woman is a work of art on her own,
ready to be appreciated -
there is no need to change her beauty,
only a craving to be a part of it.

I came home exhausted and road weary and
tried my key in the door but it wouldn’t turn.

The locks had changed.
I noticed then
that the trim around the windows was green instead of yellow.
Through the glass
I saw the rooms scattered with unfamiliar furniture.

I wondered if I was dreaming but I wasn’t.
I had, in fact, just awoken from a sleep of many years.

I knew then that I would never come home again.

So it was with her.

Dear kid you are the picture
of heart on well worn sleeve.
You oiled every wave of
raw emotion
and etched it on your own face.

Each time you draw a tear
the cascades fill your sorry eyes.
Far cry from masterpiece,
or symphony
but your truest portrait caught in time.

I do not understand how they do it,
having so much thought that they invented
an entire universe of elements,
components and small fixtures of greater
workings. Those incredible, beautiful
scientists, with their steam-crimped hair and curious
eyes; the wonderfully inventive mathematicians
who ponder over all knowledge in order
to realise something new - that is what
true beauty is. Chemistry, physics, biology
and maths are their own art forms, and what they
seek to create is more beautiful than my
words and paintbrush can ever dream.

An artist in theme,
A set artist indeed
To go rue the outside world
For its wall space and scene.
She will walk the land;
But, as it never goes as planned
She stops by for drinks at pubs
And sees some nice spots on the way.
Oh little Lily, you will rue the day.

like paint through bristles
ink is spilling out
of my overfilled pen
bleeding onto the paper

scribbling notes
in a usual cliche
curling my words
hoping they stay

for a weaver of words
I am without any
I couldn't describe
snatches of my sanity

writing is an extension
of the mind and
I am out of mine