Jun 2018
Pegasus I’ve found him. Tropical odds. Beating death. Immortalized in picture.
In love, nobody ever gets the person they had spent dreaming.
It’s horrifying. And the insecurity that comes with love.
A hellish experience.
Love had always been portrayed as innocent. Fine, your past is something to mourn over. Parting from it. Love demands that one’s past is forgotten. Present now, parent to the future. It’s an experience now to be explained.
Poetry for comfort.
Glances, eye glare, a flare. Flushing eyelashes. Not to be caught.
Is it actually dangerous to romanticize somebody? To be burden and pressed under love, is something I would rather have. Anything I would, if it’s the beat the feeling of feeling normal.
It’s a emotional waterfall. A change of shade. Alluring and seducing colours. Love is addiction. With the urge to carry on, despite not holding the courage to do so.
Oh poetry, lyrics to leave anyone spellbounded. To be in love, is to be hellbound. Rather all that brewing feelings now, to love passionately, as if forever exist. Desirous of thee, at all times. Kissing lips, swapping souls. An extension of one’s character. The critic. The caregiver. A lover. Oh poetry, how match distance have you missed the mark of accurately describing the experience of love. Still you raised to place effort to motivate. To provide belief that it actually exists and that love doesn’t belong to you.
For I’m ready to give up any earthly thing, desire, success, friend or family for any moment of love in hot and wild times, leaving traces of tender spots.
The results of love, will always be something no-one determines.
From somebody unexpected and never asked for.
At random.
Outside of one’s daily life.
The harshness of avoiding the acceptance of it,
Harder than reality.
Love is everything of prosecutor. Condemning sin.
It’s a sweeping in historical fashion of providing something more than any human purpose.
I get the poetry everywhere I go, I bust the poet open and take all his poems, I’m still claiming romance, till the day I die.
As for anyone standing outside, in the coldness of rain,
was the lack of love from no lover worth it, for the life you’re living?
Why I love thee, is something I’ll never know.
Cry now? What for?
In love, nobody ever gets the person they had spent dreaming.
It’s horrifying. And the insecurity that comes with love.
A hellish experience.
Love had always been portrayed as innocent. Fine, your past is something to mourn over. Parting from it. Love demands that one’s past is forgotten. Present now, parent to the future. It’s an experience now to be explained.
Poetry for comfort.
Glances, eye glare, a flare. Flushing eyelashes. Not to be caught.
Is it actually dangerous to romanticize somebody? To be burden and pressed under love, is something I would rather have. Anything I would, if it’s the beat the feeling of feeling normal.
It’s a emotional waterfall. A change of shade. Alluring and seducing colours. Love is addiction. With the urge to carry on, despite not holding the courage to do so.
Oh poetry, lyrics to leave anyone spellbounded. To be in love, is to be hellbound. Rather all that brewing feelings now, to love passionately, as if forever exist. Desirous of thee, at all times. Kissing lips, swapping souls. An extension of one’s character. The critic. The caregiver. A lover. Oh poetry, how match distance have you missed the mark of accurately describing the experience of love. Still you raised to place effort to motivate. To provide belief that it actually exists and that love doesn’t belong to you.
For I’m ready to give up any earthly thing, desire, success, friend or family for any moment of love in hot and wild times, leaving traces of tender spots.
The results of love, will always be something no-one determines.
From somebody unexpected and never asked for.
At random.
Outside of one’s daily life.
The harshness of avoiding the acceptance of it,
Harder than reality.
Love is everything of prosecutor. Condemning sin.
It’s a sweeping in historical fashion of providing something more than any human purpose.
I get the poetry everywhere I go, I bust the poet open and take all his poems, I’m still claiming romance, till the day I die.
As for anyone standing outside, in the coldness of rain,
was the lack of love from no lover worth it, for the life you’re living?
Why I love thee, is something I’ll never know.
Cry now? What for?
