I write because the security of your love allows me to develop my craft without concerning myself with trivialities — as if your love could be any more complete. But I write, in the first place,because of you, my muse. I write for your green eyes to glance at my humble words and for the pleasure of hearing you utter them.

It is a dangerous thing to substitute reading or writing for living. Live first, then write.

They took my booksbecause my message was love.They took my penbecause my words were love.Then they took my voicebecause my song was love.Soon they’ll take myselfso nothing remains.But they don’t know that when I'm gonemy love will stay.

Sometimes, when inspiration runs dry, I drink classical music until my words spill out.

All I need to dois place my pen against paperand your lovewrites for me.

I came to pen another poem for you, but even every unwritten poem is you.

There is no revelation in my words. I am merely stating what others have forgotten to write down.

I haven’t written you a poem in years it seems.How can it be my faultwhen the words to describe you have not yet been created?When the alphabet lacks the very letters?How can it be my fault when your loveliness only growsby the time I reach for pen and paper?Tell me how I am at faultwhen I am only a beginner in poemsand you are exquisite poetry?To write you in words is to put a veil upon you.Why must I writewhen I can kiss you instead?

I am going to build a fortress of books.Will you come inside and live with me?