Frustration with self.

I've been writing poetry for the first time in my life this past week, especially when I'm feeling something at a very intense degree. This is such a moment.

"An oak she is not"

plainly void of focus
aided through a broken lens
adjust, repair, another stare
one truth I choose to lend

a portrait you have painted
but photos rarely lie
harsh the angle, even closer
view subject sans disguise

caught in murky waters
hung up on thinner lines
that dreary room has kept you
from the mysteries of mine

through that one way tunnel
to catch her eye a feat
vivid colors, newfound subjects
epic always incomplete

framing fast your future
blank canvas mantel-prime
silhouettes and old regrets
the only me you'll find