Like an artist writing about an artist, or the other way around.

One part assurance
To every two parts water.
Caught in the sunshine,
Hands buried deep.
What you're looking for isn't there.


A simple fascination
That could give a complex;
Like the ring on my finger.
You'll wonder why my hand drags behind.
An ink pad run dry
From the flood of words
Feelings.
Real-ings?
It has given me the excuse I've wanted all this time,
Given the chance not to do a thing.
Felt so right- dug deep.

And you gave me stardust as to never forget what wishes really are.
Like an artist writing about an artist, or the other way around.