Don’t you ever get tired of talking, explainning, writting, singing or even playing with love; about love, through love, defining love. When you look around, love is almost everywhere. From the bottom of the ground to all over this round planet.
As my life progresses, I have seen and felt many different forms and many expressions of love. But as I sit here and ponder to myself about the way I write and the material that I produce, why does love always have to control my pen? Why does it have to be when I press the ink against the paper, and the pen starts to bleed either red, black, blue or even green, whatever the outcome may be or the outcome may look like it would always be love?