I wish I could produce a masterpiece,
Something I could dedicate to her;
Something into which I could release
The stuff of dreams too wondrous to recur.
I know my limitations all too well -
I’ve often had them pointed out to me;
Meanwhile, those things at which I might excel
Turn into things that just weren’t meant to be.
Not being any good at very much,
I’ll often quit before I even start;
I don’t exactly have the Midas touch -
Least of all when making works of art.
I’ve tried and failed so many times to paint
A portrait of her pure and faultless face;
It always seems that I’ve yet to acquaint
Myself with all the colours she can grace.
I thought that maybe I could write a song
Whose melody might cause her heart to melt
But every note I wrote just sounded wrong;
No chords would quite convey the way I felt.
And once again, I find I can’t create
A poem fit to greet her gracious eyes -
Although, with forty notebooks filled to date,
This hasn’t come as much of a surprise.
So maybe I should just admit defeat
And hope a proper artist comes this way;
Someone who can make her life complete,
While I get back to dreaming mine away.