She was a
natural born artist
everything was a
picture, portrait, snapshot
in her eyes.
Her sketchbook,
paper rough, creamy, thick
a sanctuary.
Colored pencils,
paint brushes,
tempera.
Treasures, she
takes charge and
draws out her
own future.
They don't know about
the real her,
this artist.
Artiste.
She loves the word,
elegant, exquisite.
No berets, smocks,
she's not a poser,
just herself.
Balloon her away,
she'll paint the skies, their
multi-colored glory.
The sky isn't blue
she murmurs
pink, yellow, purple
orange, green, grey
black, white, silver.
Even colors that
aren't in the sky would
look good in the sky.
She's a dreamer and
she knows it,
what's wrong with that?
Arabesques, curlicues, swirls
randomly she scribbles and
produces a majestically
beautiful masterpiece.
Do you know how much your
paintings could sell for?
People wonder when,
on a rare occasion,
they see a drawing.
But she'd never
sell anything because
in her mind she
doesn't consider them
done, finished, complete.
A perfectionist,
a dreamer,
yet she makes it work.
Style and fashion,
she dresses her own
unique way.
Artsy, eloquent, dainty, genuine.
She's admired,
but lonesome.
What's she really like
inside, past the
exterior?
She's an enigma.
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Once again, this is for the lovely CotchiTARTS.
Except her penname is lunamaria now.
&Standard disclaimer applies.