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Your Love

And so begins where writing of love only makes you feel pathetic.
Where you try writing those spoken word poems that go viral only because they mean something,
Not because you feel like saying something profound.
And here, you insert clever usage of a poetic device you can't pronounce the name of.
Again, you feel almost as pathetic
as when you picked up the pen
Or does that even make any sense?
Oh, right. This is the part where you make that analogy
about love making you say things nobody but yourself would understand.
But are you really in love?
Or has your craving, almost obsession
with self-pity finally taken over?
Have your fantasies of attention
from people you don't know all that well
caught up with you too?
Have you become just as scattered as the crumpled pieces of paper you wrote barely anything on
lying next to your desk you never use?
If I am in fact speaking where words didn't make a reservation,
Your Love
is disgusting.
Your Love deserves the place saints from the dark ages taunted the non ritgeous with
Your Love would go down in history
as the love nobody would play cards with
The love Romeo and Juliet would have saved themselves with,
because their sword would have surely killed it,
the love
Your Love is like a jealous god nobody believes in
Your Love is a con man
Your Love is love mothers warn their children of,
because how can anyone but yourself get by loving something
that has not only moved on,
But not even by foot?
By plane,
A private plane,
With whom all her guiltiest pleasures may board with
Because she is over your sick love
She is over a disease that doesn't want to be cured
She is vaccinated of Your Love,
Which will never become the light of anyone's day,
Not this time,
Not even next time.
Oh, right, here you insert your relentless cry for help
A cry with no tears, is what it is.
Yet how do we take such a cry with anything more than a pinch smaller than a grain of salt?
How do we take a cry without a tear any more serious than love
that doesn't rest it's case?
Your Love.
Your Love doesn't deserve to be left alone.
Your Love must be accompanied by a possessive noun to ensure societal welfare
Because how does one survive with your sick love,
The love not even one on his fellow deathbed would accept
for a second before the plug was pulled
killing off any life that was indeed better off without Your Love
Your Love deserves absolutely nothing
But a mental diagnosis at a state of the art institute
where the craziest of patients were dragged into
sporting a strait jacket
So we can pretend to care about it,
Just to give you the benefit of the doubt,
Only for Your Love to be put into a history book nobody will read
Because they all know that inside that book
contains Your Love
Your love deserves nothing but to be capitalized
Because real love deserves no definition
Yours, yours is a notable noun
That will go down in our history,
Not in the history of Romeo,
Not in the history of the Dark Ages,
But in the history of now
Where we barely understand love as it is.
Which will beg the question asked a few attention spans ago:
Why even call it love?
Your Love should be called
Your Disorder
That's better.
Your Disorder.
Your Disorder cannot be cured,
Your Disorder deserves nothing but to die off
Die like a bad pop song that was remembered
for almost as long as long as an influences
against oppression and then some
Your Disorder will not be remembered as a salutation
or salvation
to the one who got over it and found a mentally stable version of love
that didn't beg for medication doctors were afraid to prescribe
Your Disorder has less to do with something you could write a recitable piece of poetry about
And more to do with the self attention that just tapped your shoulder and walked away.

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