Real men are also writing poems

I believe I am a real man,
Writing poetry that I can?
Blushing like a teenager,
But I am stubborn and keep on.

My eyes are running in tears,
For each letter formed on the paper,
Scratching word by word,
It is a process, sow and hard.

Underneath the shade of love,
An emerald lake is forming,
With the intense color reflected,
In your eyes, mirroring your soul.

I am floating in dreams,
My veins are wider now,
The images is my blood,
Lace is my fabric.

Magic dust is surrounding me,
I am my own poet finding,
The sunbeam spices even,
At night your skin lights my mind.