plain

Art is accessible. you just lack the patience (& the passion) to make it.

it doesn't make sense because, if you refuse to 'waste time' learning how to make the things you want to see,

we both walk to school every morning.

in the winter, i wear something with pockets

make sure to keep my hands tucked in all the way

i know you'd be by the gate, waiting.

breath clouding the air,

rubbing your hands together with a shiver

as i hold them for you, squeezing tight

i pretend to be annoyed when i say

''you know, if you zip up your jacket you'd still look alright ''

you roll your eyes brush off what i say

and leave that jacket open anyway.

but you let me hold you all the way to your class

kissing my cheek as we pass

''have a lovely morning '' you whisper to me in a hurry

but it's already so sweet,

as sweet as can be.

and although I was born in the cold season,

you seem to believe i carry the spring in my palms for some reason.

'i have warm hands' is now a myth that i live by.

and i'd walk another thousand frozen miles

play my part, to feel you close and see you smile.

when the Man ruined the earth to the point of no return and started looking into space for a place to replace it, do you think he too thought he could find better?

the sun has always been a star amongst many others and yet, only one of them brings the morning with it.

every pen and paper I've ever held knows of her.

I've exhausted every memory, every piece ,every image,

i am sure.

a suitcase full of it

it's so large, how long have i been carrying it

i look at my heart accusingly

‘i'll need to set this somewhere, eventually.’

it answers with it's usual litany

‘i don't have enough space for it’

‘i don't

have

enough for it’

‘i don't

have ’

‘i

do

n

't

...’

and so i put it where I put the things i don't have space for

by my feet of course .

and it's not good enough for you,

nor for anyone.

so you can use your own to walk away.

cause what's done is done.