Stars Shine Brighter at Night

Stars Shine Brighter at Night

Stricken with joy,

Laden with bliss,

Love is always coy,

Cupid’s arrow missed.

I apologize for not staying,

For I was on my knees praying,

“Praying for what?” you may ask,

I shall tell you, but it’s no simple task.

I prayed for you, to keep you glad

In times of good and times of bad,

For I will always go the extra mile,

Just to see that star-studded smile,

That’s shines and sparkles from morn till eve

Which still, you doubt, though I still believe.

So in times of good and times of bad,

 I’ll continue to pray to never see you sad,

“Why” you might ask, “For what is your reason?”

The answer is simple: “Because your sadness is treason”

“Treason to whom?” you ask with your passionate art,

I smile and say “Tis a treason to my heart,”

Brush Strokes on Canvas

Brush Strokes on Canvas

A canvas, empty, with no design or purpose,

Just waiting for one to paint on its surface…

One painter comes along, with an artistic mind,

The type that’s special, and hard to find…

The idea comes quick, but she only paints for a while,

Before she finds the old canvas vile…

With a carefree glance she casts it aside,

Throws in onward, towards the oncoming tide…

It drifts for a while, alone with no love

Swaying about with the ocean’s shove…

Until it lands upon the shore, soggy and alone

As another artist notes the potential it’s shown…

She picks up the canvas, and takes it home,

Washes off the sand, debris, and sea-foam…

Lays it on a pedestal, and begins to paint,

The depiction of angels, watching over a saint…

But she too becomes bored, and moves on as well,

Will the canvas ever make one happy? Only time will tell…

The girl moves onto a better canvas, one that sheens,

One that is special, desirable and keen…

A canvas to which no other could compare,

A canvas to which she could never, ever, share…

She paints on the canvas, and has the time of her life,

With it she finds happiness, joy, and never faces strife…

All the while the other canvas watches onward, cold and alone,

With nothing but a half-painted picture, a disgrace to be shown…

And still the canvas sits, with no design or purpose,

Just waiting for one to paint on his surface…