Life is like a fickle breeze Sometimes it freezes, Sometimes it begins, But it always ends. You see it easy But when it ends you miss it Flows like the ocean, It's a sweet motion Yet it is complex, Never seems to end Until you end.
No one paid no mind To the tears from this man That land at my feet Creating a quicksand I couldn't slow the rate At which it would expand Leading to the scars At the base of each hand I know what you think of me But this wasn't part of the grand plan I tried and as usual I was not able To help you understand That I just wasn't capable Of being a "real man"
she casts her pencil like a wand as magic soaks into the page her flannel cascades around her work, shielding it from curious eyes she tilts her head to listen to the lecture, but her heart is elsewhere running through castles and stumbling through candle lit streets colors tangle to mirror the expanse of her dreams she shares her soul with every meticulous stroke each face blessed by her style but never the same when she designs she never aims for perfection for she knows perfect is just a fancy way of saying flawed she erases and redraws as if her art could never satisfy her desires it can always be better but it is never good enough if only she knew I meant it when I told her I loved her drawing her art speaks to me like Mona Lisa never could
As I visit him, filled with history that cannot be thrown away. In his museum, he is there, at the centre, a piece of art. But still only a statue...refusing to move. Refusing to yield a warm touch.