The sight of wildflowers The scent of a joyous day The feeling of warmth and panic The rush of excitement
The thing, that so many wish for The emotion, dreaded by many alike The same, bittersweet state of mind planted by an individual that holds a section of your thoughts
Many describe it with a tone filled with honey Others speak of it with distain I, however, view it as a sense of fear A sort of production of suffering
When I get this feeling, The feeling of sickness and of joy, I run
I run from the possibility of rejection I run from the chance of pain I run from the gaze I long for the most I run from the flower smelling of honey, to avoid the thorns that lie with the silky petals of life
Love is pain. It is an emotion that ties you to life A curse that you don't wish to break It is what gets you happy from the smallest smile, What makes you dance among the starts, then plummet to the pavement baked in sunlight.
The more I run, the faster I deny The more the flower blossoms, The more I wish for a simple glance The more I wish for a sample of joy The more I wish of him.
Him. The one who planted this corrupted seed. The raindrops that cause the rainbow The air that keeps me afloat. The thorns that bind me tightly
The curse that shall never break, But may it fade along with the cry of the sparrow, May it float along with the breeze on a wing, May it be washed away in the waves of sound. Deafening sound that will soon vanish into silence, and leave me with a single thought.
The thought that, maybe I should have watered it. Maybe I should have glanced. And maybe, just maybe, I could have ceased my thrashing against the thorns, and instead made a bed with the petals.
Love is a dangerous thing, but it is also the lifeline of the soul. It may even come to be the one you lie with in your grave, because it favoured your story.
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