If I draw a heart on this page,
Is it not so simple to erase it?
Make it fade away as if it does not
Or has not ever existed?
Is it that our love resembles this heart?
That fortitude of being has become but an art
Of deception?

Or is it that we fool ourselves into believing
The inevitability of evanescence is inapplicable to us,
As if we are beyond the confines of reality?

But, who is to say that we aren’t the exception,
The broken rule, the connection
To a lost ability squelched by pessimistic realists,
Unable to see beyond ease, comfort and practicality?

The sad truth of life is that love, real love, true love
Never comes and stays with ease,
Does not come when we please,
Is not meant to solely appease,
But rather, often, brings one to his knees.

It burns, it boils, it cuts, it stings.
Love comes with amazing things.
But its cost is pain.

Black, white, on, off, up, down, in out.
Love and hate.
The world is opposites

In order for us to last, for love to last,
We must accept that sometimes…
To love is to hurt.
If we can bare that,
We can make it.

Let’s be the exception.


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