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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I'm sorry... Love is a thornbush. Pretty to the sight yet, in the end; it's prickly touch is unimaginable. With bright red roses - it's message seems too fragrant - vociferous from afar. Romantics are obsessed with love - the misanthropes dread it; it's a kill-joy feeling - an inner nightmare of an unconcious optimistic daydream. You stutter the word love - but do you regurgitate beauty? Like a laughable idea whose far-sided partner is an emotional quadroplegic?. You're clueless and I'm a jaded wallflower. Love is a disease - It's like syphilis - one never asks for it. Innocence invades a loner's muted thoughts quite quietly. Love is calculated cancer. You try to cope with the affliction - while the misfits around you watch you hold your head erect and cackle in laughable disdain. The unfortunates are the reality. Everyone tans in Hell. No one cannot help what they feel. We are helpless - (squirming like worms) our morals swim like scum; it gets tossed around when passion hold you hostage.. Far sided beauty is one's torture up close; feeding off one's weakness like leeches on dormant genocide. From the inside out - scars surface. Emotions are demented - mongoloid flavored; unable to heal - your will is a mutilated carcass. Rigamortis quietly sets in unbeknownst to you - transparent to your and your befriended corpses. I'm sorry... the air is clearer now. Infatuation gets a second chance - another shot without a bullet. Why do we pine for this? Pining to surrender - our pride, our dignity. When we stand for our independence do we will give it all away, without a price tag?- Stupidity repeats iitself; yet we still yearn for our fictious chimera to resurface. In the end; love isn't so beautiful? Misquided vagabonds choose to paint our idyllic pictures - but it wont stop the torture; because the suffering we endure lingers past expiration... it glides above vowed headstones - until our consummated death - do we part? It can't - and for that I'm sorry once more.
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