I'll be honest
I write for the way you open up your soul
To let in my void
And hold it tight.
I write for the way your eyes dart around,
Forever questioning and learning and thriving.
For you seek out the puzzles in the world
To fuel the turning wheels in your mind,
And there are more than enough problems left
To occupy your time.
I write for the way you clutch my hand
Or at least hope to
Deep in the dead of night.
But if I were to tell you the truth,
When I look at you
You don't spark my imagination to jet off to other realms.
I don't float away to settle in nimbus clouds and cotton
At first glance
Or even the second.
I want to say
That you are my muse,
My motivation,
My everything,
But that wouldn't be entirely accurate.
Your long lashes, gorgeous as they are
Do not send me away to distant seas.
Earthy eyes, steady and true,
Do not ground me.
I am an artist in every sense of the word except the one that feels real to me.
My hands were not made for watercolor.
The hesitation in it's movements
Are far too long to do anything but soak into the page
Tearing it apart in one, long stroke
Like peeling rot off a log.
My mind was not made for photography
When every glorious gift of the world
Seizes me in place
And steals away the thoughts from my mind,
So once I realize I should have kept the image close
A year would have already passed.
How is it that the magic in my life
That I wish to hold so dearly
That I'd grasp with my entire being
Does not reflect that of the realms of fairies and fancy I read?
How can you be real
And yet so much more than life itself?
YOU ARE READING
As Tears Filled Up my Eyes
PoetryA collection of original poetry strung together. Each chapter is a single poem that can stand alone and does not need to be read in any particular order to be understood.
