They tell me to believe in it,
Says it feels like magic
But all I’ve seen is tragic
Because momma always blames her addiction
On what was supposed  to be the love of her life
My father.
A man who took her youth, along with dignity, confidence
And a heart she never had much use for after he took off.
Because of love she never notice me,
Because of love our family is a tragedy.
Maya Angelou went in and out of time
While old folks laughed at the stupidity,
The old adage or illusion we dragged our behinds into.
Something that is there but never existed.
Saint Valentine, sorry to disappoint
But your blood,
Your blood was spilled in vain.
Love is red like the February  14th,
And also like gunshot  wounds of soldiers
And cardiac ones of their wives back home.
So what is love?
Ladies and gentlemen love is nothing
But pain with no gain
A sunflower fruitlessly blossoming in the rain.