The Most Romantic Man Is Not Romantic at All

The title merely speaks of Atlas Shrugg's charatcer Franscico. He's the dream, but he is awefully a terrble person by default. He has been pegged as the enemy too much. He says the worst thing a man can be is to be a man without a purpose. After that, I realized I didn't know what my purpose was, just that I wanted to write and be read. Maybe that is my purpose.

Right before I read those pages of interesting dialogue on what a despicable man was, I wrote as follows:

The Missing Frame
The portrate of my life
was old the day
the paint dried.
There is no image
of a face;
there is a missing frame.

An aspect is gone,
tainted mostly from day one.
No oils or pastels
can permeate
what they did not create.
There is a missing frame.

What one thought at first glance
is changed by the intoxicate.
All love is killed,
no emotion drawn forth.
It's just a picture.
There is no missing frame.

The poem's title and chorus is based loosely on the song "The Missing Frame" by AFI. The thing about the art simply refers to a most amazing portrat I saw today that reflected me in more than one way. I wonder how conceited I had to be to think I looked like a great peice of art?

And that's all?

Perhaps I will upload an image, sometime.