She tries to turn
her thoughts into pictures
I just simply put
mine into words
Hers is all in color
Mine's a grayscale world
It's understandable why
you would choose a rainbow like her
Instead of the writer in me
But please let me go
I'm no longer her anymore
I'm no longer the artist
I yearned to be

I tend to shy away from makeup
I rarely pick up spray or brush
My heart is in flesh beating
and will one day turn to dust

I don't want to put forth creme facade
so you grimace when it rains
the trails of salt from filmy tears
are all that streak my face

If foreign objects draw you
jeweled tones upon the eyes
I do not fault your fancy tastes
or call concealer lies

But love is not burst into fire
by the curving of a kohl stick
And cheeks that redden with a kiss
are all that I would wish
to feed the flame upon the wick
that brightens and brings higher
two souls too bright to miss

I am cursing the rain in bright black and grey ink in beautiful cursive writing. I know you're questioning how black and grey can be bright but If you don't know, you'll never know.

I am painting sunsets on canvas but with pastels instead of neons. It's almost a bit too sad instead of a bit to happy; so fitting for a sun that's disappearing, right ?

I am swallowing pills mixing them with liquor, testing out theories to see if I can find the right way to write. All I see is blurry candle light and a dragon on my wall telling me my writing *****.

And it's sad to think how pessimistic this poem started but how within a 15 minute drive home I've come to see....

That all the rain cleared up the night sky and out came those glimmering ***** of fire we call stars. I've caught myself staring but I always have different emotions with each glance.

Tonight..I guess the world isn't so sad after all.

Passing
people
by pleasing
persons
portraying
personality
pretaining
pain
plainly
pretending­
to
plant
plantations
of
pleasure
paint
spattered
pansies
blooming
pray people pray

Paint drips disguise and
obliterate lies like ink-
daubed tattoos on eyes
fooling unconditional
considerate conviction.

In the mirror, I see art.

My dark hair curls, accentuates,
crafting my royal cheeks, smooth,
against my olive skin.

My figure, curved, full,
like the sands of time; slowly,
crafting my shape in splendor.

My eyes, a rich coffee brown,
earthquakes thrive; shatter,
resonate in my gaze.

Yet...the painting becomes forgotten,
the frame tilts with the pull of Earth,
worn hands fail to paint.

When I walk, they perceive me.
Am I as beautifully crafted as a Renoir? Or as scattered as a *******?

Each stare a different audience, another sketch, a frame lost in the viewer's eye.

But my thoughts are forever,
burdened only by another's dream,
ideas stirred, juxtaposed with my own;
an artist's piece at odds.

The colors smear, lines smudge, but yet my eyes always see the beauty. Do you?