Man, what is love.
Wait don't tell me.
You see I know what it is. I know it's character, but I've never felt the embrace.
The taste. The way she feels on my skin.
The way she embraces me and cuddles my every flaw. For a long time, all I knew was pain.
It held me in chains. I was scraping at the chest that I made into a prison.
Twisted into something of a shadow monster.
Haunting my own self living in auto pilot
Riot inside my soul.
What is love?
Wait don't tell me.
I know what she sounds like.
I know what she looks like
But I've never felt it beyond a fake smile a high that I would ride until the sunrise.
The joy was like a drug, but it was fake and only ended in darkness.
The way I felt was scraping at the prison cell that made up a human body incapable of loving and to be loved.
Loved is my only desire.
my only wish. But I can't attest the number of times I ran away from it.
Why did I run if I only wanted go stick the sun in my back pocket.
Hold it. but never truly embrace it.
Was I just afraid of it?
When you cry out and your answered ...What do you do beyond that?
When pain ...is all that I wrote about.
What is happiness?
Who the fuck is that?
Do I know her?
See I know depression.
I know anxiety.
they are my friends, and they give me a sense of proprietary.
That I am in control.
I would have to lose it all.
This space.
This expanse.
If I jump into happiness, what will I find?
Man, I am dancing around the edge.
Just jump. Just jump. Just jump.
But I can't.
I only ever dance on the edge.
The ledge. The cusp of making the life I so dearly wish to come true.
yet I run away from you love.
Why do I run.
The pain that became us.
Is what ties me down,
but I am lacing the ropes and untying them.
Forever locked in lying to myself
My enemies they tear in my mind.
I can't align with the thought that truly I'm worthy to be loved.
My heart groans at the tho8vht of true joy.
I cannot imply the number of times I've been close to peace.
Why am I afraid of what I so desire?
Am I a liar. A fraud.
Someone that you only should applaud when the act is done.
Like a typewriter onto the next page.
But I'm the book. The book that's never opened.
What is love.
Who is she?
Is she me?
Have I been looking for myself this whole time?
Has the mirror been clear all along?
Ring the alarm clock for its time to wake up from the nightmare of self-hate.
-fin-
YOU ARE READING
Ona Aria's Poetry Collection (2022-2024)
PoetryThe 4th or 5th Poetry book that I have made on here since dealing with life and how I cope with things. Poetry Spoken Word has helped immensely with trying to get out what my soul needs to say. It's been the most therapeutic coping mech that I have.
