Love
If we don’t get hurt, we will never know that the assurance
of getting loved back and getting hurt diverges to a world where things always
fall into ruin. And where could we find “love” in those ruins? Nowhere.
A heart of scratches and bruises is an experienced heart. A
heart that gives without looking back to seek being given, is a heart that
learned what love really means.
But is it wrong to assert one’s importance? As people, that
was deemed necessary for self-actualization: to be made special and loved.
What if the person you chose to love, despite the whole
world telling you not to, always fails you?
I will never think about salvation. What can it do in a
world where chaos are flowers and my mind a garden?
You are always a destruction: a whirlwind of thoughts I
never thought would circle around my soul.
You have set me free. But who would’ve thought freedom
hurts? The chains might’ve gone too fit for my soul that when you untangled
these shackles, I began feeling the swelling engraving red and sore like dusk on
my skin ready for another round of darkness.
I chose the dark, I fell in love with it, not at first, but
eventually. I’ve seen many souls laughing in chorus about the mundane that
steps the level up a little to catch their attention. I’ve thought about how
wondrous it would be to partake in such splendor. But I belong where I belong,
and it is not there.
Eventually, every “hi” would end with a “goodbye”. It would
always be better to have a hole in your heart where you can gradually flush out
the temporary.
When I love, I love with all my heart. It was never a good
thing. And it sucks, that no one was able to love as I do.
I was a bell in love’s front door
That anyone who steps at the welcome mat leaves me hidden
silver strings
They leave but the strings don’t
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