Sunday, 11 November 2007

The smell of paint, the sight of the blank canvas, I try to see in the corners of my mind the picture of what I'm about to create, what I'm supposed to do, but all that comes in to light is you.
The thought of you faraway living your life in someone else's arms.
And I start to remember all the smells, the looks, the touch, the laughter.
And the thought of you glancing at me while I work. A sigh of desaproval and you rendered me undone. How come your approval still means so much to me?
When I was the one who told you to go?

A glimpse of light from my window moves through the white surface in front of me and brings me back to the present. But somewhere in the back of my mind, your voice is still telling me it's not good enough, I'm not good enough.
So this is what I want to say to you, I might not always say or do the right thing, maybe I don't always look the right way, or my hair doesn't stay in the right place, maybe my weight fluctuates and my clothes don't always fit, maybe I scream when I should be silent or stay still when I should move, but you know what? That's just me being me, maybe I like the fact that I'm not perfect, maybe, just maybe, you're the one missing out on something great, because love isn't about being perfect, but about loving each others imperfections.

Finally, I can paint again.

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