" I talk of the struggle
The struggle am in.
The struggle within,
when chances seem thin.
The struggle from sin
That has me stay clean, stay keen.
Stay away
From all that is not win.
To win
Is the struggle in the struggle.
To win in the struggle,
I have to stay lean
Lean with muscle from stumble
Too lean I have to stay humble.
To lean to this struggle,
I have to be packed with ample
Faith and effort main in the pack Discipline of a marine
Also packed.
In the sack
There is no slack, no whack,
no what ifs;
What if I cannot? What if I fall?
What about I get it all,
then tell tales to all.
My struggle only steals from knowledge
Then makes a pledge
That never peels.
My struggle is real
Really made of steel.
My struggle does not feel
What is ill
It is a struggle for feel
Of the compassion pill action
Of happiness and success.
What feeds my passion
For the mission,
is that my struggle gives."
As it was, Michael was lucky. For he had found his soul. She was beauty full. So much so, that the singer had made no song. How could he? The words were all wrong. She was free, free of the world. Yet she believed, lived in dreams like he did. She knew nothing of screams. She was his art and he loved his art. He loved her art. When her brushes and paint made touch and left mess on canvas, it left him faint. Eyes wet with admiration. They were in love. They were art. Two parts made one. It was not love at first sight. It was the type that claims a good fight. The kind that maims a good knight. It was bad love and a very good one at that.
YOU ARE READING
Bad Love
PoetryThis story proclaims a singer. Michael is his name. Michael is my name. Keep up, this is a game. The guitar was his fame. He was a sickly lover. Flowers in his lungs grew, butterflies were the flu.
