WRITING LOVE? Ha-ha!
Hey sweety,
Let's not write about it.
Do not narrow it down.
You will squeeze it to death.
Set it free and let it be
what it is.
It is love.
If you can write,
what is love,
then it can be anything,
but love.
The moment you give love your words, you corrupt it.
You only touch it and you ****** it.
It is alive when untouched.
It is pure until unsaid!
You always feel it and never talk about it.
That's it.
That's love.
Isn't it the only part
that survived all our fights
and stayed with us?
So I ask you
to keep it away from your words.
Listen, sweety,
Do you want to capture it like you captured a bunny rabbit with honeyed eyes?
Or you want to put a leash on it as you put it on your boi after so many of tries ?
Do not cuddle it like you always do with your pooh, it will die.
It's too fragile.
Try not to hook it like you hooked the goldfish.
Let it be what it is.
Unbounded,
unclaimed,
Unoccupied.
It's meant to be free,
and always free.
But not free like a dove.
Someday you will catch it too,
And,
somebody else will ****** it from you.
Then how can you call it Love?
It will become a thing of catching and snatching, then eventual hating.
You will hate it.
Yes, you will hate your Love.
And will cry over it and it will never be yours.
Once you lose it, it's not yours to claim.
Do you really think love is that kind of hunting game?
Let's think of it as an ocean.
That demands not your loyalty,
but devotion.
It is holly and you are not.
Admit it,
without further questions.
You can behold it
But, You cannot hold it.
You can touch it,
You cannot drink it.
As long as you want, you can linger.
Move stars, stir your finger.
Splash it. Play with it.
Get wet. Get *****.
And smile, watching yourself dripping.
But don't think about stone skipping.
You can do only little things to it
But, in return, it will do greater and fatal things to you.
You don't know what it is.
I don't know what it is.
Let it be unknown.
And you are mean to swim through
and never step out.
When you are dry enough, it will drown you,
That's all it is about.
You can call it **** and hate it.
like you hate the end of titanic.
But that's it.
That's love,Sweety.
And it's not a fish-love
or a dove-love.
Do not try to hook it
or cage it in your words.
All of your efforts will go in vain.
But I think, you think you can...
Because you possess the power of poetry?
Do you want me to laugh at you,
dear sweety? Ha-ha!
Poor you.
Poor poetry.
**** the art.
**** the history of literature.
Nobody ever could.
Nothing ever could!
So stay silent and let it do whatever it wants to do with you.
If it wants you to write about it, then pick a pen and write about it.
Write your verses.
Fill your pages.
Sell poetry.
Get rich.
Sweety!
But do not think,
you can ever write about it.
The poet is frustrated because of his own incapabilities of loving and writing so he preaches against love and writing love to his love interest who is also a poet. This poem also explores the idea of love which is too vast to be captured in words or any type of art. Love is eternal and unexplainable.
