To Bleed;
To bleed is to be wounded,
To be wounded is to be pained.
Painted with colors of the dark.
The hurt is real, naked and stark.
To my fellow, people and brethren,
Pain and hurt are in life like breathin'.
Two of a few proof in life you reap,
Two of a few dim shades you keep.
To Mask;
Shadows and masks, a bunch alike,
All but colors so dark and ghostlike.
Personas and faces aside- there lies,
People adorned with almost skin-like lies.
Black to glaring red to a scorching sun,
A cycle of colors designed to drip a ton,
A ton of emotions mortals often hide,
Often desired, expend and often hated.
To Love;
Among that which are often yearned,
Love appears to be one most coveted.
Love bleeds a color so rich in red,
A color that is both bright and deep,
It leaves no room for redoing and suture
Whether of past, of present, and of future
Love, to say, prompts us to bleed over,
Over simple actions and words forever.
To Bleed, To Mask and To Love;
Truly,
People bleed over their own undoing,
People mask and hide their own sewing,
Of their poor heart they kept on tearing.
Confusing, how mortals tear and fix the thing they were given whole.
Is Love worth all the bleeding and masking?
Or is it truly Love, if you had to mask and bleed?
My dear, there is still time for rethinking.
For among all the sad depictions of love,
There is still one that remains and stands true,
"Love, for sure, does not leave you dead."
