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Poem

I can't help but feel sad as I paint this picture of love
With you watching, hinting how he should look like you
Knowing that she looks like me; But it wouldn't be right
To paint him in your likeness, and I let his face be

Blank, so we can both pretend, to keep you happy,
That it's you and me smiling beneath an apple tree
A lovely facade, a mix of right and wrong,
Crying inside, as I sing you this song

It isn't right to string you along
Making you think that it's you all along
Who keeps the smile on my face
I take the paint and in his place
I write, "It isn't you."
It isn't you.

I think as you turn your head away,
You try to make it seem like some mistake
Excuses run through your mind
I wonder which one you'll find

You remark on the inner meaning of my painting
The sad story it tells that you never relate,
Never relate to yourself.
I'm putting paints back on the shelf
As you awkwardly mumble your reason and good bye
I turn off the lights, sit at my window, and sigh

It wouldn't be right to spare your feelings with a lie
Even if that was our last good bye
It's better to know the truth than for everything to seem
Like it could go according to your dream

It wouldn't be right to string you along
Making you think that it's you along
The man who keeps this smile on my face
Is miles and miles away from this place
But, I sigh, "It isn't you."
It isn't you.

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