The ArtistNo longer she draws,her pencils lay restless on an empty easel.The crude colour'd water, stagnant, dust covered,enfolds a waterlogged paintbrush in its murky, liquid grasp.No longer she draws.The canvas remains blank,as bleak as her emotion.Piles of discarded work,lay despair-smeared, forgottenand ruined by her frustration.Dried paint clogs her inspiration,a flow once wild, now gone.Not even a trickle from those pursed lips.No creative course,just a tear drop,from eyes which once transcribed her feelings,that now gives away her heart.Her hands once wrought artistic meansnow lay in disuse- pale by her si
And She SmiledHe was so gentle, and took such care,you would have thought this his life's work-but it belonged to someone else.Mistaken for a trinket,it had been pushed aside,and shattered in the fall.Casually swept up, and put on a shelf,it gathered dust-until he found it,and saw the beauty they had all missed.He spent hours every dayfor months on end,fitting every shard into place-singing love songs as he worked.And it seemed to hear,as pieces sharp enough to sliceinstead, slid togetherunder his talented fingers.And then, just like that-it was done.And he cradled it in those strong hands-and brought it to the g
Three Little WordsA sunrise, over a lake of pure innocence.That moment in time, stringed with decadence.Silver stars glittering like silver tears on a teenagers cheek.The joy of a friends hug, a long lasting love.There was a campfire, surrounded by a thousand melodies,a dawn chorus of emotions.An eternitys gaze, at the striking sunset, painted over a field of gold.It fades faster than a lovers touch.A memory, destined to remain as a piece of writingImbedded in the sand.Washed away by the waves of time.Across the horizon and into the mind of another.A gust of wind and a sudden chill,The warmth of another... so close.Two friends sit
Something more than youYou and I used to walk underneath blue skiesin the middle of summer;wondering what was behind the others' eyes.Between games requiring guessing and bouts of twenty questions,a mournful silence lurked in between our many discussions-I listened as you lamented; you gave me the incentiveto conjure emotions, & I was hoping that they would never lessen,but my lesson has been learned now that our fire has all but burnedout-you planted seeds of doubt along the lonely routethat I take every day, now, with no one at my side-a dying flower sprouted up from those same seeds;its role is to be my guideso that I can look to it and