To expel the outlines piled in my mind on paper,
With a light pencil in one hand,
And slice of rubber in the other,
I parent an impression of hope.

Therein lies the potential and the excitement;
A basic figure given the foundation of grandeur,
Amplifying in complexity before me,
With every scratch of graphite.

As it evolves, a heaviness sets in.
And I pause,
And I stop...

I've given something beautiful a half life, again,
As if it was birthed human,
With no flesh to cover its nerves,
And no breath to cry out its agony.

It remains still in my lap,
Eyes blank as ever staring, maybe, at me .
Out of humility, I tack it up on the wall,
A space shared by its many siblings.

I retreat shamefully with the promise to complete them,
Fumbling with the reality of what I do;
Playing God, I shape the husk of a soul,
And drop it when it's still brittle.

You look in the mirror and see every flaw
     on you face,
Then hold your head down for every little
     blemish, for all of your minute imperfections,
And that is all that you see, all you can
     think about when you watch people's eyes on you.

But we are our own worst critic,
     and how pessimistic it is
That we can only look at ourselves
     and see our worst.

If you haven't noticed, though, you've
     never truly looked at yourself.
You've only ever seen your reflection,
     a mere image staring back at you.

The truth of the matter is that you'll
     never be able to see yourself, only your reflection,
Something that can never fully capture you
     because a picture is only worth a thousand words.
You are worth at least a million.

So maybe you should stop looking
     at yourself in the mirror
And start seeing yourself through my eyes,
     then you will see that
You are beautiful.

I write my words
to paint a picture,
one of hope,
of love.

I’d awaken passion,
if only I could.
We could walk on beaches,
listen to ocean’s roar,
dedicating that moment
to the rest of our lives.

I’d dry your tears,
write your pain,
your suffering
into the depths
of the sea.

My pen draws pictures
of swirling lines,
surrounding us,
holding us close
in each other’s arms.

I pray my inkwell
never runs dry,
my quill flying across
pages of love.

I pray my words
comfort you,
warm you
and fill you
with pictures of us.
Together always.

I drew a picture,
so simple and clean.

I drew on it canvas,
so ugly and mean.

I drew with it crayon
with red and black.

I drew it with anger
with a knife in my back.

I drew from my mind
and things that you hid.

I drew from inside
and hole that you dig.

I drew a picture,
thought it was cute.

I drew it on canvas,
thought I killed you.