You tell me that love has no home in your heart, because it tore your decorated walls of trust apart.
Distorted your beautiful flowers that you planted with passion, while the soil overflow with tears.
The fabric that you also call your skin has been unstitched, bruised and color fading.
Pieces of glass lie scattered on the carpet from the broken window, that has now distorted your view to see clear.
The pantry that once had food for your soul is empty with residue of pessimistic that the pest feed on.
The bathroom mirror shows a reflection of a person that resembles you; animation of a princess, but when the sun sets you’ve fallen in love with Shrek and your new name is Fiona, unattractive and love is the blame.
You tell me you could care less of love being homeless, walking the streets of broken attempts, falling weak of loneliness.
You even said that love could be sleeping under a bridge and you still wouldn’t give a shit.
But I question you and say what if love got hit by a bus full of passengers seeking it? What if love was trying to catch you again as you fall?…
and what if love was a puzzle that is trying to find the pieces to put itself back together?
My life revolves around me in images of myself; my mind produces extraordinary emotions that are buried deep within thick layers of flesh. My heart pumps as a percussion producing music of my soul, which release feelings beyond belief. The only cure from this infection that drains me as the ocean drowns the rocks, is to make the world my wife, and rename her earth, then romance or love her, then I can create a culinary masterpiece, a dish, I named: poetic thoughts..