Definition of love.
Intangible currents that lap shallow,
tides reach the sky,
and also dive deep beneath reach-
far beneath low.
Love is not blind,
it sees every speck.
It investigates and inspects,
noting flaws and beauty-
it creates what it expects.
Love is not pain,
but pain lags shortly behind.
Love crashes a party when you're least prepared,
trashes the place,
eats your food and steals your liquor,
breaks lamps and windows,
and disappears in a blink leaving its bitter cousin pain and all of its litter.
Love is heavy, wet mud,
solid and steady.
Love dries with days,
and become sand that blows away in the wind-
untraceable and unrepairable.
Love has simple needs,
but causes such complication with everything it's near.
Love is sober but acts drunk,
a flirtatious wink turned to a leer.
Love is not in books or words,
love is a nomad that's never satisfied,
never fed enough,
offering you no choices,
only must.
Love is a murderer,
red hands with blood on its grin.
Mocking you from the future,
laughing from your past.
"Wait", it says, "let's make up",
and like I said, you have no say-
you will believe it, it makes you,
you must.
Love is a circle,
never giving you breaks from its troubles.
Always repeating and always defeating you-
leading you to its slaughter.
Intangible currents that lap shallow,
tides reach the sky,
and also dive deep beneath reach-
far beneath low.
Love is not blind,
it sees every speck.
It investigates and inspects,
noting flaws and beauty-
it creates what it expects.
Love is not pain,
but pain lags shortly behind.
Love crashes a party when you're least prepared,
trashes the place,
eats your food and steals your liquor,
breaks lamps and windows,
and disappears in a blink leaving its bitter cousin pain and all of its litter.
Love is heavy, wet mud,
solid and steady.
Love dries with days,
and become sand that blows away in the wind-
untraceable and unrepairable.
Love has simple needs,
but causes such complication with everything it's near.
Love is sober but acts drunk,
a flirtatious wink turned to a leer.
Love is not in books or words,
love is a nomad that's never satisfied,
never fed enough,
offering you no choices,
only must.
Love is a murderer,
red hands with blood on its grin.
Mocking you from the future,
laughing from your past.
"Wait", it says, "let's make up",
and like I said, you have no say-
you will believe it, it makes you,
you must.
Love is a circle,
never giving you breaks from its troubles.
Always repeating and always defeating you-
leading you to its slaughter.
Published by PrettyAsPale
Haven't put the pencil down since they gave it to me. And although I know it's obvious that I haven't had any formal training or education in writing, what I write is sincere. Whether or not my writing fi... View profile
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