The yellow sky comes to the songbird’s lullaby.
Yet there’s something inside you that won’t die.
When it reveals its ugly head whose thoughts can petrify.
I can’t help but ask why.
You call yourself a decrepit photo.
Blurred shades of dismay and grey-
That “you haven’t done anything for society to weigh.”
The truth is…
You’re a negative photograph.
Under development in the red light of age.
And even through this rigorous stage,
You’re still my photograph,
my perfect photograph.
The blue sea above is packed with ships of white.
We ride through town with javas under streetlights.
Yet that fiend emerges to ruin your delight.
As if it exists out of sheer spite.
You call yourself a messy sketch.
Lacking reason and direction-
That “this charcoal etching will never achieve perfection.”
The truth is…
You’re a premiering portrait.
Mistakes and accidents never reflect the final illustration.
And even in this early stage, if you deny all this affection,
You’re still my portrait,
my perfect portrait.
As heaven’s spark turns a shade of black.
There is something sinister that’s holding you back.
Crying into sheets on your bedroom rack.
Sinking in sorrow from your own attack.
You call yourself a broken canvas,
a chasm of taint and stress-
Begging me to answer, “why I’d settle for something less?”
The truth is…
You’re a bright painting.
A radiant colored wonder I will never mistrust.
And even if you say you’re made of lint and dust,
You’re still my angel,
my perfect angel.