The Artist

A HB pencil with a piece of lined paper,

Are all we need to continue our capers.
Here studying the sweet outline of your face,
On photos where you stared off into space.

Artists are not born, they develop over time,
Inspiration strikes them like a lyric or rhyme.
Sunlight gently brushing your face so pure,
Coaxing in my creativity with a seductive lure.

Light wisp showing the shadow on your eyes,
Capturing the beauty that continues to rise.
We want to find scenes that stir our souls,
Consume our minds and swallow us whole.

So with my HB pencil, we’ll conquer this world,
The breathtaking sunset, a curious little bird.
I start with your face, it makes me feel warm,
Fireflies in my heart are beginning to swarm.

Just a little something I did the other week. I occasionally like to draw.