Mustard Poem by Anisa Tara

I'm painting my picture again,
He's beautiful beyond compare.
Constantly perfecting my idea,
Adding strokes here and there.

It hurts my heart to look,
And yet I can't look away.
My picture tears me up inside,
Although he has no words to say.

It's almost been a year,
Yet I haven't let go of this brush.
I've given all I've had to give,
It's taken away so much.

I'd hoped he'd open his lips,
And speak words of desire.
I longed for them to speak,
Of waiting I did not tire.

But his smile began to fade,
He frowned and closed his eyes.
Even though I stroked harder,
He didn't want me in his life.

I laid my brush to rest,
And closed my eyes to sleep.
I saw his perfection before me,
I couldn't help but weep.

There was nothing left to do,
So I put him in a frame.
I pinned it up in sorrow,
As I engraved his name.

His residence is the real world,
Our lives are miles apart.
I painted his face because,
I'll never have his heart.

He joins a host of frames,
Faces painted and drawn.
A single thread runs in them,
- Men I wished upon.