She paints eyes,
She paints blood shot eyes,
Eyes full of stories,
Eyes filled with something buried deep down in her.
We don't talk a lot,
And I don't know her story,
But I know that she survived,
Whatever happened to her,
I know that she drew and painted through her hard times,
I know that she always picked herself up from the ground,
And that she was able to pick me up,
Whenever I asked her to.
I've never met her,
But she is beautiful,
With brown, warm eyes,
And cute chubby cheeks,
And curly wild hair.
She talks to me and she tells me that everything will be alright eventually,
And I try to believe her.
And I try to be as strong as her.
YOU ARE READING
My loved ones; a journey.
Poetry“Perhaps one did not want to be loved, as much as to be understood” George Orwell.
