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I shall surely try to become a more worthy self,
but not with myself in mind.
What will it do myself if I am temperate and kind?
Or if I have much virtue, who is that virtue for?
It is solely and completely for you whom I adore.
Love is my greatest wealth,
diminishing purely physical states of "sickness" and of "health;"
when love enlightens my mind and brings me such joyful folly,
the mere act of living or dying makes not much difference to me.
I want to fill my days with laughter; your laughter more than mine.
It must be true that love's great youness is the hope of humankind.
Brandon Nov 2014
I don't believe in love
I haven't for the longest
And loneliest of times

I believe in convenience
Sometimes even coincidences

Small moments in a lifetime of living
Where someone, somewhere clicks
With your lifestyle, your ideology, your youness;
The who you are at that exact moment in who you're becoming

Sometimes they stick around as long as you want
Sometimes longer, much longer
Sometimes they don't stick around nearly long enough
And sometimes you only wish you would've met

You say another place, another time, another life
There's always another to grasp onto

You give chances

1 chance
2 chances
3...

At some point you draw the proverbial line
Cut off all ties
Become numb to the memories...

It haunts you
Somewhere deep where you can't remember it
But you know it's there
And you're back to where you started

With yourself
Becoming yourself
Being yourself...

Until the next love comes along
And you settle comfortably,
At times horribly uncomfortably,
Into the role of Us and We
For as long as you both shall..................
Hanna C S Jul 2019
Why must your youness be so
Impeccably imperfect,
That I cannot write you justice;
Cannot conjure even a shell of you.

Ever the joker you dance
At the edges of my vision;
Remain uncapturable yet unforgettable,
As I feverishly, fervently fail to
Sketch the shape of you.
My love,
I would slit my wrists with a ballpoint pen,
If only the ink ran a truer colour of you.

Rivers stain paper and corners curl crisp;
My pen runs dry over and over.

— The End —