You confuse karate with love. You punch, kick, and block. You master the form, Practice and practice. You remember the creed. Karate is not love. You don’t kickstart the heart, You can’t block love out, Or punch it into submission.
I confuse love with poetry. I read, write, and dream. I master the edict of the pen, Recite and recite. I remember the sonnets. Poetry is not love. You don’t stanza the heart, You can’t make a metaphor out of love, Or personify it into breathing.
When will we learn? When will you stop kicking Cupid? When will I stop serenading him? When will we stop this silly interpretation of love?