All artists are born with magic in them,
They use it to create beautiful things out of thin air
Though I've found that none could ever compare
To that of the wonders by your hands

You were born to shape the world
To twist and bend it to your design
I was surprised when you choose me as your canvas
Molded me to perfection and titled it 'Mine'



You once told me that I was your muse
A body so full of untapped beauty
That it was criminal to hide

I told you I know I'm not much
But I'm all yours, so take me
And rearrange me into something worth your love



You made me feel beautiful and I loved the attention
You told me to close my eyes and use my imagination
And when you gave me wings and told me to fly
I did so without any hesitation



If I would've just opened my eyes
I would've seen the truth
An artist lives off the high of creation
And once they've finished they're through

While my back was turned
And I prepared to take the fall
You were off to find another canvas
Another muse to use up

Flickering indistinctly, like the last reel
of an early silent film,
these blurry shadows of windblown leaves
project themselves into
the corners of this simple room.

Inside my mind is another room, lit by intuition.

It is here that possibilities are delicately considered,
weighed, ever so gently, for their potential as eventuality.

This is not to say that my heart never holds sway
in these measured evaluations.

Oh, yes. It does win, from time to time.

Life is just sweeter, I have found, when peace reigns
between these two old friends, and a mutual accord is reached.