I scratch and tear at my page all day,
But nothing does compare-
To the woman I once drew-
Who looked into the air.
Her mind aloof but brown eyes steady,
She pondered through her thoughts-
Thinking of her own past lover-
Made by pen and ink-pot.
How could she long for my creation,
Made by my own hand-
Inked and lined on fresh warm paper;
Skin uncolored and bland.
Perhaps I am jealous-
For this sketched girl,
Who longs for another drawing-
To gift her pale blue pearls.
But I am but an author,
A maker of the arts,
My skills are limited to the papers-
And pen on paper hearts.
I create the lives of people,
Ones who don't exist-
They long for those that are yet to be-
And yet they still insist-
That their lover is somewhere out there,
Searching for their soul-
Not stopping for a minute-
To eat or rest their soles.
I wish I had the ignorance,
The bliss of unaware-
That each my creations have-
Looking in the air.
Alas my inked woman,
Why must you weep and cry-
For your so-called lover-
Who's heart does not comply.
My heart, it beats and throbs,
And yours still thumps so stagnant-
Could we make it work?-
Inked woman of imagine...
