Thread: Well this has no title

also more poetry to line these empty halls
canvases filled with life, inversely proportionate to those there to appreciate it
these words don't expiate my own guilt

anyways

i asked her to paint a picture of our hearts
tied together in reds and blacks
and her paintbrush danced across the canvas of our lives
weaving glory into the tapestry of our banality

she painted her eyes in colours bright, glint of mischief and glimmer of love burning whole
she painted mine in black and white, the contrast baring all that lay behind them open to the world

and i wonder,
was this wrong?

I asked her to paint a picture of herself,
and colour it only with peace of mind
to use her eyes as the finest brushes
and paint the world with her walk


she didn't


i asked her to paint a picture of my eyes
but the canvas she returned to me bore
only the barren hope that coated her empty brush

i wondered, then,
did she think me empty and hollow?

but when she smiled i realized
that grandeur stems only from our own hand
and the blank slate that beckons,
burgeoning possibilities of what could be
end up more beautiful than any creation

for in the end, even perfection is subjective