The Artist

I did some drawing a while ago, and this was just a poem to tell the girl how she drew all the creativity out of me.

A HB pencil and a piece of lined paper,
Are all we need to continue our capers.
Here studying the sweet outline of your face,
On photos of you staring deep into space.

Artists are not born, they develop over time,
Inspiration strikes them like a lyric or rhyme.
Sunlight gently brushing your face so pure,
Coaxing in creativity with a seductive lure.

Faintest touch to show shadow on your eyes,
Capturing the beauty that innocently lies.
We want to find images that stir our souls,
Consume our minds and swallow us whole.

So with my HB pencil, we’ll conquer the world,
The breathtaking sunset, a curious little bird.
I start with your face as it brews up a storm,
Fireflies in my heart are beginning to swarm

The End

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