with his endless eyes devoted to the lines of the blank paper
he pours out his heart, pours out his mind
in simple ink, plain ink so plain yet filled with emotion
dripping
with emotion
she goes to the others
she loves them superficially...seeing exterior beauty or whatever she thinks is beauiful about them
does she realize the beauty that is right there? right there?
with his compassionate heart, he writes down his story
and they look over his perfect words considering them meaningless
when really they are beautiful, more beautiful than the most perfect sunset setting in the west and painting the sky with every color until it is dripping iridescently
but really...what kind of image of beauty do we have?
i love him, i love him so much.
i see the beauty.
why can't they?
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