The art we make,
It’s real not fake,
Not ever imagination.

Never created for a lens,
No cash changing hands,
True love’s divine resurrection.

Forever, our souls,
These poems have told,
What our true meaning is.

Here, in heart’s support,
In concert, our rapport.
Until the next time we can kiss.


I’ve drawn you,

Each stroke I thought “I’m lucky this is mine”.

Tracing your form,

Stopping to stare at your perfect lines.

My art a mere copy of what this world gave in you.

My work never giving justice no matter how I do.

I’ve drawn you,

I think to have you here in my hands.

Tracing your perfect form,

Wishing life into my creation as each stroke expands.