Love is a fickle thing,
It’s all around, in the small details
Sometimes it’s just a bit harder to find for some people
But it is there, hiding in the bushes or underneath your pride and fear

I found out, you got to let it find you,
You cannot go look for it; it doesn’t quite work that way
It finds you when you need it too

When you’re ready to be yourself and comfortable in your own skin
It will find you then

When you least expect it, it will creep up on you
And life as you know it will be over

Hopelessly romantically over
Love actually does exist

Do not look at me like that.
With those eyes that see only what is shone to you.
And you accept all of it.
No questions asked.
No logic, no reason to seek.
No.
I am not just an object you can look at.

Do not look at me like that.
With the judgment of their thoughts
That you so shamelessly replicate
in your feeble, feeble mind.
No originality.
You bore me in your dullness.
No.
I am not who you think I am.

Do not look at me like that.
With ears filled with their whispers.
I can hear them too, you know.
You're not very discreet.
No.
I am not defined by the stories they say.

I am not an open book,
Or a single shade,
Or a monotone.
I feel nothing for their interests.
I am not alive in their ballads of woe.

I am alive in myself.
I am the abstract, I am the obtuse.
My colors, range to infinity.
My stories have happy sad tormenting everafters.
I do not care for their hollow affection or their false ratification.
I am unattached and I breathe fire--
in.
out.

I'm ablaze in my little place of ease.
Even alone, I have found my love...
She was there along.
Residing in me,
It was always--
me.

*I am myself. That is enough.