Who says love is blissful?
Maybe Edgar Allen poe,
buried deep in his grave,
suffocated to death by a writing desk,
and picked off by a raven.
Maybe shakespeare?
Strangled by love’s laboring losses,
stabbed over and over again by Juliet’s sharp knife.
Perhaps Jane Austen?
Frozen by Mr. Darcy’s icy glare.
Love isn’t Wonderful, blissful, thrilling.
It’s a risk, the daredevils take.
Through the ring of fire, and they mostly just get burns,
and telltale stories at bars, of X-s and mystery misses.
Cause that’s all love is.
When you miss the one thing you never had.
When you kill yourself over something meant to make you live.
Love isn’t graceful or elegant, or sweeping motions,
On a crowded ballroom, where it seems only the two dance.
Love is ironic.
Love is death by life,
Love is bitter and vengeful,
Yet it’s forgiving.
It’s ordered chaos
It’s a trickful, manipulating, mess we make for ourselves.
And we wish more than anything we could have it,
or never experience it.
We can’t live with it, or without out once it’s been awakened.
It’s selfish beast that carefully holds back your fears like chains.
We are either vulnerable or unloved.
There isn’t a sitting room, waiting to be taken to the underworld of heaven.
We are always in a toss up of either eternal pain or endless happiness.
Love isn’t blissful, it isn’t forever.
It’s buried with a grave, lived in a wilting flower.
Silent as riot, and bold as a white crayon.
Love is a knowledge that makes no sense.
Professors who wasted 8 years to try and understand it.
Love is an executioner's blade being used to cut hair.
It is never meant to be, yet we pretend the pieces fit,
even though our perfect picture is busting at the edges
Love is ironic, and that's that.
So complicatedly simple, isn't it?