The eyes, that's where it starts;
                                                     I stare into this intense gaze, and like a siren
                                                             he calls.
                                               The rays kiss my silken skin, causing a blush to
                                                     blossom.

                                               What is love? I often wondered that question,
                                                      the fanthomless quest for a man to save me
                                                              from the black and white globe I lived in.

                                               What is love? Surely not some knight charging up
                                                      with his sword drawn, to pierce this flower
                                                               to take this heart.

                                                Is that love? Is love mere candy coated lust? A
                                                      rationale to save our precious sensibilities?

                                               No, love can be everything; love can be passion,
                                                      strength and intensity.
                                               There might not be a knight; he might be a bit
                                                       tarnished and rusted, yet there is man,
                                                               and there is woman, perhaps not a lady.

                                                Love is more than pretty words spoken with
                                                        longing eyes,
                                                Love is more than gifts on special occasions,
                                                Love is more than money given when in need.

                                                I don't need to prostitute my love for money,
                                                I don't need to be guilty for feeling a need,
                                                        a want, a desire.

                                                Love, it is that all wanted, but rarely attained
                                                        perfection in this world.
                                                Love can be achieved by the most homely girl,
                                                        love is  blind, in that it does not see a
                                                                   blemish, a scar.
                                                Love merely sees the heart, the purity of
                                                        emotions.
                                                Love sees the soul and answers its cry.

                                                My heart cries for its mate, for its answer,
                                                         like a child it reaches out,
                                                                     grasping into the air in search of its
                                                                              pure form.
                                                 Will my heart find the answer it is looking for?
                                                 Will it find that noble man who sacrifices
                                                         everything for this faulty valve?
                                                 Will it find peace?