Young Writers Society

i dont see how you walk down crowded streets
watching people part for you as you silently pad along
with your heavy lashes and criss-cross patterned legs
without realizing your presence is something everyone notices

and

I dont see how you make any room you enter a studio
and you watch the paintings in the exhibits without seeing how
their colors melt into each other at the sight of you

and

i dont see how you touch the brush to an empty plane on the canvas
and all your heavy thoughts mixed with true emotions
become paint fading into stark city scapes and bright neon lights
and you claim that you arent an artist

dont forget ive seen you
bleed yourself dry on a canvas
while pretending not to be a part of it

somehow
you dont see yourself
reflected in the road side puddles
and you dont see yourself in my broken heart

but i see you and sorry but if you dont see yourself
let me paint for you; you are leaving something out
i may not be destined to hold a brush
but i will give what i can afford you

let me pen it down--
in an ink that you cant remove from the picture--

i place you exiting a building; probably a coffee shop
feet poised ever walking in the painting on the side walk
moving forward eyes ahead towards the crosswalk

dark eylashes and soft sad eyes that cant be silenced;
stark and bright all at once, your feet are planted beside the road
but you dont glance down at the puddle near your feet
too tired of your reflection.
it was raining but when you walked out it brightened right up
the street hasnt dried up since this mornings meltdown--
and a sandwich with no water and your cheeks havent either
the advertisments shine off of you like lights always do
you are a diamond doused in mud

your reflection is a wave of colors in the puddle
as if it cant capture you because nothing can
your determination is movement in a still life even when you feel like death
you have those elegant soft lips with a harsh curve downwards;
why are you always unhappy with yourself

you are only half a dozen laugh lines away from permanantly sad
im not sure how to draw hair tossled with every step-
colored with you newest obsession but i can try

and

im not sure how to paint your clothes always beautiful always bold
so just picture an artist and that is as close as i can get; art is even in the way you step
there is a bag draped off of your arm with a sketchbook in it
it is large black and heavy with things you yearn to capture and place on pages
you capture everything around you except yourself
and i was hoping this would help

here i am in the midnight
eyes dark like a moodlight
im trying my best to feel right
like i believe i can be okay
have i ever felt that way before
and if i did how could i tell
i am afraid i cant know
here i am eys on fire
feeling like a liar
with a permanent frown on my face
listening to others as they
spew hopeful sounds into the air
trying to hang on to the notes
and climb up them as if they
lead somewhere other than
the end of the youtube video
they say music is a quick fix
for the emotionally unfit
and i think it fits a bit too well
for me to be comfortable with
here i am sitting in the dark
hoping i can leave
a positive mark
on me

my hands flow over the page as if they arent afraid of anything anymore
a form of release where im no longer hindered
and i dont have to make words anymore; deftly trailing across a page
glancing at my muse and tracing his face with memorizing fingers
every line in his face every mark i want to bleed into the paper
i look away to the blank page and begin
each mark has its own reason
a sign of age or joy or fear
or love or lack of sleep
and at the end it tells a story
one with no words
but so much meaning