to ache is an art.

an art that the human soul is deprived of.

an art that everyone;
                    from toddlers
                             to corporate *******
                             must appreciate.

maybe it requires abrasions,
                                    gunshots
         ­                               or mockery from
                                some ****'s mouth

but the glory
of the slow-burn realization
                     that we're ******
is the wake-up call
                     that everyone must hear.

and we're stupid enough to understand
that aching
              is like drowning
                          in experience.

and drowning
        is preferable in deep wounds
            than in the shallow waters
                     of a rushed healing.


and it's saddening
cause
as the youth's yearning
           for the morphine that
                 'self-care' offers

the more we forget to ache.

Years and years
Of living
Through the many
Versions of love
Has taught me
That, Love,
If true,
Is light
And no one
That has it to give
Hides it under a bushel
Left to the imagination
Of the one
It was meant for

That love, is loud
It was created
To be seen,
Heard
As much as it is felt.

It's taken me years
Of writing and reading,
Living,
Giving and receiving,
Love
To realise;
Love is simple
It's humans
That are complicated

Forget about the
tarnished pages, tingy blues,
tattered memories, ties severed, a love that died long ago.

Papers stained of sweaty inks, tear scented poetry,
someone lives
between the lines-
you.