What is love other than a burning passion to be accepted? To be known above all else? To be understood? To understand someone in a way know one else has the privilege to understand that person? What is love? What is it that makes that impossible for me? Why does no one understand that which is me? What makes it impossible for me not to be accepted? Have I not tried and given all in the search for the entity of love? Have I not sacrificed my heart enough to those who only destroy it, yet I continue to give it? Am I too naïve that I only don't realize that I am not able to find love? Is that the underlying meaning behind my search, that I'm not applicable for love? Is the problem only me? A reasonable conclusion to an otherwise morbid situation. A plausible explanation to the task that I find impossible to complete. But maybe it's time I stop making excuses, stop doing that which I have done, time to stop being that which I have been. Maybe it's time I rebuild upon that which has been torn and forgotten. The ashes that now lay barren and scattered amongst the waste of the world shall once again become flame.
Maybe it's time I let that flame consume me as it once did. But I cannot foresee that happening again. I'm too weak to endure the strength it takes to stand with that passion once again weighing my heart, what is left of it that is. I can't begin to accept the fact that anyone sees me in a way that closely resembles the way I love. Maybe it is nothing more than a foolish adolescent's dream to be loved in such a manner. Nothing more than a nightmare that this same adolescent wakes to everyday to find no one indeed loves him in this manner.
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A Constant Poets Thoughts
PoetryI am constantly thinking poetically and finding meaning in the menial. I figured letting others read how I think might give insight to the world behind our own. Enjoy.
