Archive for 05/11/2011


IV. Love Is Not Poetry

Love is not poetry.

It cannot be written;
you will always miss the point by a long shot.
It cannot be copied;
you will never capture the essence of the virtue.
It is not a story
waiting to be told,
or a storm
in the making.
It is not a fantasy
of epic proportions,
or a terrible dream
you cannot escape.
It is a paradox:
alive but without breath,
dead despite the beating hearts
drumming out
their songs
within
it. 

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Love is not subjective;
it is not objective;
it is not abstract
or surreal
or abnormal
or nonexistant
or biased
or romantic.
It is not a fairytale
nor is it a nightmare.
It is simply the act of being there;
not for any form of personal gain,
but out of pure, unsophisticated devotion.

Love is a gift.

Love is a blessing; it is a miracle waiting to unfurl.
It is the gentle memory of summer rain;
the breathtaking exhilaration of unfettered exploration;
the sweet laughter of family and friends;
the crude beauty of the remnants of shattered glass.

 

Love is not a duty.

Love is not expectance; it is not reliance.
It does not demand your attention.
It does not give; it does not take.

It does not keep track of what you owe.
It does not force your hand.
It does not pin guilt to your flesh,
needles pinching at your eyes,

the hissing sting of ice
rushing through your veins;
a gust of bloody wind
screaming for your response,
pleading: stay,
don’t change,
don’t go,
don’t leave me alone.
You are all I have left.
I
cannot
live
without
you.