Love
Not merely confined to the faces within the safe walls of your own, small
World.
Love stretched
Rather to accommodate the new faces of everyday life -
Yet never wearing out. Though, met with a certain few that frustrate with expressions bearing the weight of strife -
The grey-haired man in queue to pay for groceries with a quarrelsome wife;
The raven-haired girl with eyes to reflect them;

Love in turn smiles
A contagious smile. Though, rarely returned with even a slightest grin.
You see, to some, smiling is an expression of love, and perhaps not everyone is filled with so much that it has no choice but to overflow, like sweet honey from a cup.

I can't tell which I despise more

to be swept over and pulled under
by the violent currents of sadness, of anger, of frustation, of confusion -
by every single emotion
some I can't even give a name to
until my lungs are **** near full of water

or to float on the river
and not even feel the water lapping at my skin
and not even take notice of the cool and the blue of this liquid mirror under me

I find myself wanting to run (away), both figuratively
and literally.

My feet carry me through all-too-familiar places;
at a steady, slow pace
in hopes that
it will stop my mind from dragging me to strange ones;
(ones I might not be able to find my way back from)
in a frenzied, impulsive motion.

But again, this effort is in vain.

My feet slow to a walk, then to a stop.

I look into your eyes and they hide absolutely nothing
in all their shades of
brown.
They're not the type one could get lost or drown in ;
so tell me why
I find myself wanting to dive in still
- and head first -
when I can see the bottom
so ******
clearly

I will not bow.
To these demons
of depression, of anxiety, of emptiness, of isolation,
of self-destruction.

I will not cower.
To agree or disagree; to break or simply to bend,
that is my only power.
To remind myself that I have the upper hand.
(For all those years ago, the battle had been fought, and for us victory has been bought)

I will not be trampled underfoot.
It's true that my God, in a grave, was put -
but it is also, that He rose again.

And for that reason, in death
I will not remain.

The world calls my Passion
'human',
but my God, how It rages
whether you give yourself over to It or not;

sooner or later

It begins to twist; It mutates
and its true form is revealed
- oh It is much more inhuman,
and oh, how much more severely the world is mistaken -
than anyone could have
imagined.

Passion, It bares its fangs through its hellish
ear-to-ear grin, saliva dripping off its teeth in the most
hypnotic, animalistic fashion.

Those who place themselves in between its very jaws
(and they are Most),
caring only that this demon of theirs
has enough to eat, a full belly:
an appeased appetite(monstrous as it is)

they are left to starve,
a decaying image.