Is there a reason why your heart gets broken?
Whether you saw it coming or not, nothing can brace you for the pain you will feel.
At times, you blame yourself for the pain thinking, "Why did I listen to my heart?"
You cry over someone who isn't worth your tears.
Your heart has been gullible, causing you to love and trust too easily.
And it's just sad when you become immune to the hurt.
Getting your heart broken is the downside to love.
The question is...
"Will you allow it to break you?"

When said to the average woman, it's an insult
When said to me, I tilt my head back and grin
I fix my imaginary crown before it slips and say,

"Yes, I wear that crown proudly. Want to know how big of a ***** I can be?"

“Don't you miss being in love?”, she asks.
I simmer, gathering myself  and my thoughts.

No, I don't, because I have not been in love;
Not in the manner I imagine it.
I have loved - beautifully, might I add -
But never have I been in love.

How can I have?
At my best, all I knew was to compel, persuasively,
someone into loving me -
the best possible way I knew how.
I revealed just enough of myself,
the beautiful of myself,
the parts of me that drew butterflies.

Hidden were the broken parts of me,
those which keep me awake, sleepless -
'til the moon kisses me goodnight,
in the last hours before dawn.

I am not, by any means, denying ever loving.
I have loved, blindly and beautifully.
All I have ever been good at was loving -
loving someone into loving me,
the best way possible.

But, all of their love was inadequate.
A love which always fell short of loving me,
the best way possible.

Love; inadequate:
Unable to express loving me,
unable to express themselves of loving me.

In turn,
I was slapped with sloppy efforts of loving me -
Vague inadequacies of love.
It was never enough, not remotely close,
to what I had imaged loving me would be.
It was short of ever arousing me internally,
short of wits to spiral me into being in love.

And so, how can I miss being in love,
when it has always been a feeling that eluded me?
How can I miss being in love, when in love -
I concealed the broken parts of me?
How can I have been in love when I was lonely, in love?

How can I have been in love,
when all I knew of being in love was to love myself -
by loving whomever loved the aesthetic parts of me?

Loving me has always been an infatuation -
an infatuation of the broken pieces of me,
coming together to create an illusion of a love -
an unsatisfactory love for loving me.

How can I have ever been in love when no one has known,
expressed, conjured the best possible way of loving me.
All of me.

Once more, up at the last hours before dawn -
awaiting the moon to kiss me goodnight, I tell her.

I strike the canvas with bitter paint
Sink the graphite blade through the innocent White
My charcoal hides the stains
This oil will covers the cuts

Is my painting good enough for you?
Tell me now, while the flames lick my soul
Is my gift still what shames you?
Is that what liberates me still a weakness in your eyes?

I may be able to create untold horrors on empty sheets,
I may be able to draw a journey to the soul,
I may be able to give way to a masterpiece,
But to you, all these colors are what make me less than a man

So I'll splatter the ink
Slice the void
Paint my hell
Because this is Art,
This is Life
Because this is Liberation