Put ink to pen
and pen to paper,
the words and stories
will come later.

Never allowing
the water-flow out,
will end in damage,
destruction and drought.

His face holds no flaw, his smile stops time.
His words paint a future in this willing mind.
He must be an angel of the Lord's design.
Yet, religion divides - it bars me from him.
How, Lord, is it possible? That he is a sin?

A shiny forehead;
accelerating pulse.

I'm anxious to win;
yet thoughts escape me,
like smoke in the wind.

I lost hold of my-
self, clutching onto
this pen in my hand.

Always, I feel it
escalate - defeat:
my sinking sand.

So maybe he does hate music,
but he loves it when I sing.

Maybe people can't change people,
but maybe love can always win.

Every artist needs a muse.
For emotion
can neither be created nor destroyed.

It must be felt and expressed.
Each piece of art,
a replication
spurred by deep appreciation.

You my love,
could birth a city
of singers and musicians;
ballerinas and bakers;
painters, poets and pastry chefs.

Never at all  
did I understand love songs before.

To 'do anything' for a smile,
simply couldn't be true.
Until you grinned,
and I looked at you.

Never at all  
did I understand marriage before.

To give up oneself,
your ambitions and goals.
Do it all for your family
and unite your souls.

It perplexed me how
they knew it would work.
Until one look at you.
Then my love, I learnt.