Love is a fickle, fleeting thing,
It leaves you with a brutal sting
That lasts a lifetime and then some;
Until a heartless corpse you become.
It breaks you more than it repairs,
It builds then pushes you down stairs.
A wolf feasting on its pack and mate.
At the end all that's left is miserable hate.
Giving the impression it completes one,
After a while away the love will always run.
It makes you whole, just to make a bigger hole,
Digging deeper into your being like a tireless mole.
Destroying everything except itself and disdain.
Love is just another synonym for lethal pain.
When we reach our inevitable finish line
The thought of numbness will seem sublime.
YOU ARE READING
A Series Of Events
PuisiI've found that I am most comfortable in discomfort and chaos, as opposed to serenity and happiness; probably because this broken part of me is all I've ever known. love, turmoil, desperation, infatuation, betrayal, death. these poems will contain...
