You paint in unseasonable colors,
ignoring the snow outside and the cold within.
Your brush, your sword,
You are not blind,
You love with open eyes.
Live with them too.
You see all the broken places as well as anyone.
You simply choose not to paint them
About this poem
I am often told I am naive, that I look at life through rose-colored glasses. They would be wrong. I see as much ugliness and pain as anyone. But I choose to focus and create the best in it, to paint hope more than despair, love more than hate, beauty instead of ugliness.
It may not be realistic. It probably isn’t realistic. But it’s my choice.