She takes away my voice sometimes.
As I gape at her and sense her wont
My stupid statements fall off and die
Like flowers to an early frost.
Yet I know that I must speak,
Or die then in the struggle.
She is worthy of it, the endeavor,
And so I seek to find my voice.
I had always imagined the power of words
To express the thoughts and mind,
And so I have practiced to work their charm
Never to leave a tender moment silent.
Bold conquests and reverent passion
I have told again and again
To faceless women and men
Who gave me praise.
No, I am not prince Hamlet,
Nor was ever meant to be,
And though she loves me as I am,
She deserves much more than this.
But when I pronounce myself and look at her
I know my voice is lost,
When a simple touch yields infinitely more
Than my broken oration and practiced art.