With my words I do not paint; instead
I beat them into what I wish to see.
A cudgel has not the elegance to make,
And I am executioner of my heart.
It's on the t-t-t-tip of my tongue
Crude instrument of communication
But slaver to which my life comes from.
You owe me this to end my frustration;
You owe me this to let me paint my scene,
To glorify the beauty and the heart
Without the violence at my core of being.
But not today - I do not make my art.

My love, I tried to write a poem for you-
Incomprehensible, my words fell through.