Those we love often hurt us in inconceivable ways,
Our affection is tested, and like wind on leaves, sways.
What a bizarre thought, that love knows how to sting,
It's the material that all of those artists seem to sing.
When they're terribly frequent, the bouts of confusion,
We become a little less than ourselves, not human.
We wish harm upon those that we hold dear,
And what motivates these feelings is blatant fear.
Fear that we're not good enough,
Or that we don't contain the right stuff.
It's frightening to think our love is unrequited,
That those we care about fight it.
But remember, the problem isn't always you,
It isn't always a result of what you do.
The problem can exist in those we love,
Who don't understand that connection is a dove.
You tend to it, encourage it to fly,
Or strangle it and allow it to die.