Hunting, I choose my next prey.
Couples stroll together, dazed and giddy,
Few that is, the ones considered so “lucky.”
What makes them fortunate? Is what they possess so amazing?
It must be better than those walking, glassy-eyed, barely holding on.

There are few that walk alone. Some sulk.
The brave, they march confidently, alone for the better.
Independent, they need no one. These, these are the lucky ones,
Not being played by such a condescending hormone.
Is it all a waste?

You see, love runs in stages. Trial and Error.
Old men and women, wise, sometimes stick together.
Middle-aged average joes, they have it the worst,
Binding themselves to someone by law,
Then trying their best to make it through, together.

Yet there is one stage, one of the first, that believes they know all.
Cooing, they mumble their stories of true love,
The sixteen year-olds, sneaking around,
Raving of their nights together in cold and lonely basements,
They preach the graphic details, claiming this is real. The definition of love.

If this is true love I wish to play no part. You see this sounds like a mistake,
Love is not a mistake.
It is hard to believe these underdeveloped minds,
Hard to believe that they hold the key to love.

Not trusting them, I searched every corner of the earth.
Read every dictionary, begging every stranger.
No one knows. Not a single soul has a right to define it.
This word, this contradiction, has no definition.
A unique sensation, it is as delicate as a fingerprint.

I have come to some sort of conclusion.
That love is a smorgasbord of every emotion a human can experience.
Love is a dark and driving force, a power.
Love can create; love can destroy, so proceed with caution.
Be careful with the concept of a heart.

You see a heart is not real, it is imaginary.
Humans have conceived this idea that hearts hold emotion, they don’t.
Hearts are muscles, they hold blood.
So be wise with this abstract box of emotion inside of you.
Said box is fragile, there is no materialistic way to repair it.

The boys and girls of all shapes and sizes come to me.
Gathering like children around a savior, asking.
Demanding answers, something stable, a direction to follow.
They want help, understanding of love; I cannot help them.
I cannot help you, for I do not know what love is.

It is a bite in the behind, undeniable.
That’s the rumor, that one day, you will know. I will know.
No comfort comes to me from this idea.
There is a nagging fear inside of me, a nightmare.
That I may never feel it. Or worse, that I have missed it.

So there is one final, piercing question.
What would make something so painful, co confusing, so worth it?
Why does the human race continue to plunge into this concept of love?
There is no answer to that question.
For Mother Nature herself, could not explain it.

Call me cynical and insane, please, I will not be offended.
All I’m saying is that I wish no piece, no slice of this cake.
For love is a responsibility, something serious.
Pardon me, for admitting, that my mind is too fragile for said albatross.
I refuse to take part in a project like this, that I could not handle.

Did you ever hear?
Humans laugh in uncomfortable situations,
When they cannot conjure up a serious response.
I’m laughing now, doubled over in hysteria,
Imagining the responsibility of love.