How can I, a source of such exuberant energy, look so startled?
Black, sunken eyes with a wide, gaping mouth that can **** you, but also bring things to life.
Hunched against the wall, I pale in comparison to the pretty polka-dot paint,
just a hard, blank shell covered in dirt, grime, and dust.
Come to me only when time is on the line, with forceful, shaking hands.
to fill my deep, dark void with a surge of passion,
only to abandon me for hours at a time, while I exert all my energy just to bring you joy.
I hum and buzz until you rip away my nutrients until I’m ****** and drained,
with my surprised expression returning to one of electrifying horror.
But still, I’m the lucky one to give you a glowing light, always full, to destroy the darkness.
I’m not one that gets lost in dusty shadows that might never be found,
who sits in silence, with that shocked face, waiting to find out his powerful purpose.

The perfect still portait that captures all beauty.

Is it the rising sun as it strokes the oceans creating a beautiful mirage of wonder?

Is it the night light sky where the moon and stars remain out of reach with the lone dancing star few see?

Is it the moment of two joining in love and putting the bands of eternity upon their finger?

None of these are the perfect still portait.

The perfect still portrait is the moment in time not captured by lense but by sight and mind.

The perfect still portrait is a feeling and memory at once that can never be described or forgotten.

My perfect still portrait is the moment you said you love me.

Hidden in your eyes
the only portrait of mine
Wish I could see it once
through my eyes
which were yours earlier!

There’s a moving portrait above my sink,
her cheeks are pudgy,
her skin is pink.

Her eyes are melting,
teeth fallen out,
her noose is bleeding
a river of doubt.

The portrait screams,
she cries for aid,
she tells a dead god,
that he could have stayed.

No oil,
no paint,
no canvas,
not a brush;
Instead this portrait feels and aches,
her rawness still to gush.

Yet dusk is dusk,
and by dawn it is dawn.
You may look for such a portrait,
to find that it is gone.

Not a finger nail in sight,
not a single clogged hair.
It begs but one question:
Was she ever really there?

My heart is held in the hands of people who like to break things.
Chaos is their default, and
everything is my fault.
Why do the broken always find me?

They think I am a mirror, but I am a window.
Not fractured like them, but convient and translucent.
They keep their hands firm against my cold surface and stare through me while they continue to look for something.

My mosaic is just not for them.

I see the depth of the ocean in your blue eyes,
With all its amazing secrets,
I see the beauty of the paradise on the beach of your eyelids,
Calm and peaceful,
I see salty puddles of raindrops fill the pupils of your eyes,
I hope they are of joy and not sorrow,
For I want to drown in your eyes filled only with happiness.
Open your eyes and look at me,
So I can be reborn again,
To find the secrets in your heart,
And the intentions of your soul.
Please let me be the beholder of your eyes,
And a complete portrait of your memories.