Too much is written of love.
True, its beauty overtakes us all
At some point
(for theres always a yet, or a but)
Where is the magnificence
In blind devotion to another
For what purpose do we decide
To dedicate ourselves entirely to another
To honour (what?)
To obey (why?)
To hell with honour and obedience!
May the concept burn out in its own
No, truly, do not mistake my words for those of a scorned lover
I am not affected by such trivial pursuits
Could it not be more obvious that I am
Not of understanding love
Not of recieving love
Not of giving love
But of bearing to read
As I sit here typing
My heart (hah!)
They beg me to cease
‘End thy nonsense!
Begone to such trite ideas!
Surely the world has had enough of love?’
But love sells,
Is more marketable than the true feelings in a man’s heart.
There is no truth in this love anymore,
But visions of a fattening wallet
Or of the adoration of fools
Cacophonously they cry
‘O, for love! Indeed it is the truest,
Most beautiful of all ideas!
How much more of a man
Is a man who sings loudly of love!’
How much less of a man is he
How untrustworthy, how little
How fucking pathetic
To whore oneself out
To falsify feelings to feed ones finances
Or ones ego.
And how feeble are the minds
Of those who are pleased by these false prophets?
True beauty comes from true expression
Not from a pretty mouth with a pleasant song to sing
(remember the buts)
From an honest singer.
The song may not be sweet, the mouth may not be pretty
And the truth may not be pleasant
But I for one find more beauty
In an ugly truth than a
I cannot promise that I will write no more of love.
I can assure you of my honesty
Of my devotion to truth
Of the sincerity with which I write these words
This should be enough.
And should, in time, I write of love anew
Please be assured, I’ll write of love that’s true.