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For that is what


For that is what love is? So it would seem to me, This thing you all so affectionately call love, Is but a lark and a fleeting thing of fancy. You look upon a persons glowing life filled face, You gaze upon their impressive form, You breathe in the spectacular vision of their aura, Having little or no care of the substance beneath. To a great many, this is but a fickle moment, A time of which you take in the exquisite structure that is the outward shell of what is only meant for us among the earth to see. Your intent is not to love the creature that drains upon your libido, or your conscience, or your duties. Your thoughts are to dominate and domineer over it. For that is what love is? To take what one would give you in trust, And to warp it to your own muddied rational of what you process to be correct? Please, tell me I am wrong! Tell me that our nature to coexist among the sexes is not in vain. Tell me how it behooves me to give the most aggressive agenda of a male the benefit of belief. Tell me that mothers would still die to protect the splendor of the only thing that they can love more then themselves. Tell me that people still would give to others to help them to stay in speed with this ever changing ruthless hell bound sphere we refer to as earth. Please engrave into my most analytical and somewhat headstrong personality that what I seek, Will eventually come to be. Instill in me that my quest for what I consider almost near perfection among the somewhat gray line of what is the reality of living, That it is not a farce, not a lie, that it is not a fantasy. Or a well spun vision of grandeur. I ask only these things so that I may prove them right or wrong. So that in my own heavy ended hurt of these experiences that I might come out to be a better person, a stronger, more sensible being. Gently, I would much prefer these things to manifest in a direct self-evident way. If it is so, I would have these debates of the heart handed to me in such a way that I may not misunderstand the true meaning of what this emotion emulates among the soft, pliable creatures that feel the hard thrust of what one would commonly call the human condition. Sadly, I think we are at an impasse. For no matter how hard we as the soft and compassionate try to work with these myths and wanderlust dreams that are handed to us by poets much as myself, There are the cold and callous that would have us dangle in a most seedy attempt to keep these falsehoods alive, To make us live in sweet illusionary dreamscapes so that in their own anger and dissatisfaction in life, that they might destroy and belittle the one thing that us of the most passionate and fiery nature may suffer along with them in their bitter sweet meanderings. So, if I am unjust with my accusations, I bestow upon you my most heart felt sorrow. My attempt is not to take what little glance of hope that both myself and countless other thespians have wrote and or acted out upon. Merely remember, that I am but a lowly player, I feed my own soul with such visions of passion and such movements of the spirit. I write what I cant equate into reality on paper or I act it out as if I am in some kind of great musical production. I am among the few that is moved by the very sun shining and the moon waning, so for me to try to dispel what I so hungrily seek would be ludicrous. Honestly, being that we are a passionately uninhibited lot, we would rather cut our own hands off so that we may never write again if this is the right of things. Seal our ever-moving lips to stop the words from flowing, stop the drama from being played out. But one cant help but wonder can they? Where is there room in the world for us great amusers of the heart? When we give all these great eruptions of sediment to those around us, and they are blatantly abused, where does one go from there, but to question? I state only what is shown to me as fact. As I write this missive, I am reminded that even though I question this emotion somehow named as love, that being what and who I am, that I still live in the unstable thoughts of a poet. Though I might right now studiously question this most deceptive word called love, I know that I live my very life by it, as most of my cohorts do as well. It is in fact the love of words, the love of passions, the love of thinking that makes us bloom and expand. To take from me love and what it means to a musician of words is to take from an infant a meal or earth its soil. I ask these questions with a truly downtrodden heart. If these things produce themselves as falsehoods than the world would turn dark and people would kill each other in anarchy. Still I study further for above all us artists of the world must be enlightened before they are persecuted. So I question the validity of it all, on behalf of all my pleasurable muses and amusers. So I make my assumptions about this word love, whether it is between a man and women or between a mother and infant, or between an artist and her tools. I question this word and its possible implications in the common world so that I and countless others may come into a more celestial state of evolution. So please, feel no shame if you must take from us what is the very spark of all that we pull into ourselves as truth and honesty. It is a simple question with a not so easy explained answer. For that is what love is? By: Dana Kellison

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Angry days provide angry work.


12/28/2009 12:47 PM Premium
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Votes: 3
Views: 996
Date: 10/4/09
Other: Writing