I cannot take it,
the trillion triggers.

The impatient 'di-dum'
of posey fingers.
The conceited 'snip-snap'
of makeup-mirrors.
The piercing 'peep-peep'
of jeering fellows.
The stuck-up 'click-clack'
of sour stilettos.

Can the world please stop?
Just for a moment?

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.