Imaginary

I spend so much time thinking

of beautiful ways

to describe things

and people, that I forget sometimes

they are still just things and people,

that they are real

and while that is magical in its own way,

it’s not the fantasy I have in my head,

I get stuck there too often,

and I am let down.

The curse of an artist is beauty,

it costs more than you realise

to see the way we do,

in patterns and colours and shades of grey;

where there’s a starry night

or a cafe terrace in warm light,

we try to see it differently,

mapping faces and fingers

to try and recreate them,

imagining

the colours of your eyes as the moon,

your touch as sparks of red

and loss as deep blue,

it is so easy to forget

there’s just the sky and faces, too.

The lens in which I view

life through is different,

and this is both a challenge and a triumph,

but not everything is poetry,

not all leaves turn orange in autumn,

I create beauty in anything I can,

because I think I’m afraid of boredom.