Could this ever work? A shaded corner of the room sends shivers up her spine, the sole purpose is to lighten the day, the tears fill her eyes as fresh lemonade in a crystal glass.

She admired the person that told her that he never involved himself with anyone as a young man, he did not see the purpose, the relationships were destined to an end anyway.

Is it that we do not see time? Or do we not want to realize our own demise?

Young, and beautiful in others eyes, she is on the break of becoming confident, perhaps even finding closure to this leap taken.

The desire not for false love stories, but the personal conquest, a meaning, an understanding.

Salvation of the soul? Or just pure wondering?

Passing by couples embraced, watching innocent laughs and giggles, gestures of fingers tangled in one and other, these small yet trivial happenings quench the soul.

Could the finding be now? Or should patience continue as nature takes its course?

The poetic shadow upon a vase, to paint, to draw, to dance, perhaps romantic fantasy.

A drawer lays unopened, memories and the typical half smile, half frown surely to appear.

Happiness equaling to love?

Or lost equaling to love?

Once happiness is found could the love be lost?

Yet, when we dance, it is like stars are the freckles of the skies.

Getting to know thy own self can be the most beautiful journey, the slight misunderstanding and disbelief that indeed no longer a child, you mold your soul.

These are the moments important, the sweet irony of how she does not realize these moments will never come again, eyes toward the imagery outside, she could be admiring the scenery, or simply in another world.

The half smile on her face says it all, perhaps content, perhaps discovery, living the moment, the perfection flows.

She is slowly falling out of loss, and sliding into her own skin.

We drift as the wind upon untouched leaves, not to wonder in our fellowship, but in all else shall we find our true breath.

You and I true, not a dream, but a happening of miracles, we rise.

Close thy eyes, open thy palms, feel the water flow, the blood blow, the winter speak, and the summer weep.

One we shall be, one in unity, one in difference, one in reverence.

Her eyes reflect him, her lips fitting to his, his belief, his faith, his everything.

Manage these hardships that face our standing, our living, our wanting, small fingertips encounter his tough skin.

Without words, they tell a thousand stories, soft piano music in background, their souls melt one into another, all is perfect, in song and in life.

Her eyes close as her lips only slightly make contact with his, the skin trembling as his hands embrace her ever so lightly, as the sound of rivers flowing through lands untouched she gives herself to him, vulnerable forever to his light.

Rays of sunlight enrich their bodies as one lay next to other, a love uncontrollable, unstoppable, incomprehensible.

Dismay fills her every vein, as she opens her eyes.

The night sheds it darkness upon her, like the fall slowly sheds its green to grey.

Utter sadness overwhelms the soul, as realization of the beautiful dream enters her thoughts, untrue, just dreamt.

Falling asleep once more, her heart breaks piece by piece, day by day, alone she is once more, the soul consumes itself until it shall have no turning back.

No death can be this horrid, the soul cries out for mercy, for release.

Soon it shall consume no more.

Diminishing soul of my being, redeem yourself once more, hope is on the way.

Feeling his presence she turns to find him approaching her.

As if she were a teenager again, she stumbles upon her words to greet him.

Feeling blood run through her veins at twice the normal speed, she feels her lips touch his, she could live without food if only to touch those lips once every day.

Feeling as one, the world around them stops in its tracks.

Dogs bark, sirens yell, but nothing can interrupt this moment of pure bliss.

She knows she loves him, because she is scared to death of loosing him.

Night comes and as they sit for hours holding each other, admiring every scar and bump, her defects are his favorite parts.

His finger swipes among the almost perfect lines on her face.

He could stare into her eyes for forever and a day.

He has seen many pairs of eyes, but none like hers.

He could see himself in her eyes, he could see them, his children.

His future.

He wants her to be his, and only his, until death do them part.

She is afraid, her past has taught her to be cautious, for her love is easily found, and easily discarded.

Every man to have touched her soul, was forever in obsession. Never to forget, always to regret.

For you see, she bears the burden of being a rare beauty in a world full of banality.

Her thoughts never heard, outer beauty ever shadowing her inner expression.

Her smile could make Rome fall once more.

Her skin softer than the finest silk.

She could conquer the world and more.

A horrid burden, horrid indeed.

She could want nothing more but to be the mother of his children, to do everything humanly possible to show him how much she adores him, but something forces her to refrain.

Weeping at the thought that she could once more falsely consider it love, she decides to stop before it is too late.

He does not allow it, and dancing together he confesses his utter love for her, logic screams for her to cease at once, but failing once more she gives in. 

For you see, this is no love story, but a story about love.

What is true art?

Is it when we see a painting and admire the artists vision?

Or is it when we can connect with the actual image, perhaps see ourselves in the painting, feeling sad, happy, or completely nuts.

I believe that art is the human desire to be different, unique. Although we do share the same feelings, and maybe even the same events in our lives, we all interpret it different.

Imagine a bowl filled with fruit, how would you draw it?

Big and plentiful? Maybe small? Would you have all the fruits in a bowl, or would you leave one out?

What fruits would you draw? Bananas? Apples?

Could all of these describe who we are? I for one would draw mangos, not many people like mangos, does that make me strange?

As a child I used to draw something, and be impatient to show it to someone, why is that?

Does art actually express our utter need for attention?

Could the most beautiful paintings,sculptures,or drawings actually portray what an emotionally disturbed person the artist really was?

I heard something interesting once, it went something like: “You can tell if a painting is good when you feel like throwing up, because you know if something is truthful when your body feels it and not your mind.”

I found that brilliant really, and maybe it is the fact that it is so raw and striaght forward but I truly believe that we should try and see art with our bodies instead of our minds.

The mind is something very powerful, it can play with us like we are little puppets on strings, especially when influenced by so many things, the people we surround ourselves with, the way we grow up, the things we study, and the things we believe.

We are taught to think a certain way, and we are constantly trying to fight it.

Think of picasso for example, in his time, when he began to draw the way he did, people said he was completely out of his mind.

Now, people will pay thousands upon thousands of dollars to have it fixed above their living room chimney.

Why?

Because we are trapped in a body that twitches when it wants, that absorbs what it wants, and thinks what it wants.

Art is our escape.

When you draw something without thinking twice if it is good or not, that is the real you.

That is you saying “mind, you know what, today im doing what I feel and not what you think.

And in conclusion, that is true art.

The pure expression of human beings soul.

His soul and nothing else.