It is me even though I write poems
Though I don’t like to read it
Nor the poems of many
It is truly me. Even though liking
Is what I can do
But loving it,
Full of expression of my insincerity and emotions,
Is not what I can do
I am sorry, but this is like a fever
A silent, sick fervor, that to love is not truly,
A necessity, not needed,
And we only do it to just represent
Just a lone emotion that could waste
The Lively and the full-spirited ones,
Just its lonely, loathed nature, of love,
Nothing else
It is me even though I only perceive,
Love, as a tendril that entangles
All simple lives, turning to intricacies
I only perceive,
Love, as a translation of sufferings,
Of different meanings of solitude
But they publicize, love, as full
Of affections, and dramatic instances
Of plays, acts, and melodramas
People are truthfully blinded by love
How much she has brought to the world
That is why all my understanding is like this
For I am not yet blinded myself
By Love herself
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Forces That Made Us Thinking
PoetryA celebration of free poetic expression of the sensible and the nonsensical life where invisible forces push and pull our ever-expressive beings.