love: an illusion Love, 'tis a word no other word could take the place of. Nobody truly knows what it means. People, foolish simple people, try to put a name to it, To put a name to a feeling? Self-important mortals. Maybe they shouldn't have named it in the first place. For so many spend their whole lives searching for it, Searching for this unknown misnamed feeling. Yet when they die, They still don't know whether they've obtained it.
Those cynical claim its a farce, a falsehood. Something poets and writers made up, Some cotton pulled over their eyes. While those wishful convince themselves That they are not deserving of it, Of that unknown misnamed feeling. What fools, what children. And some who think they've obtained it, Talks of it like god, An unknown misnamed god, Lords over others like a child who has a chocolate, Whilst others starve, waving it around, Flaunting it, trusting it. Trusting it would never end, The never-ending unknown misnamed feeling for a god, And not cherishing the time they have for happiness.
Yet sometimes, people have to believe in something As fictional and unbelievable as love. something made of candy floss and sugar, Something they would rather think of, Than experience for themselves. History would call them cowards. But it seems they are the wisest, People who don't meddle with The unknown misnamed candy floss feeling. People who know the futility of experiencing Something so perfect and unstable. For the image would be marred Broken by experience. They who'd rather keep the perfect image forever In their memories, Than break it and call it experience.
chiiyo's comments :
This, I must clarify, was written when I hadn't experienced love yet... or hadn't experiences what I thought was love. And sometimes, when I read this poem again, I ponder the truth of a younger more innocent me... I still do not know whether love exists, although now my view is a little different from then, and now my view is a little less cynical... a little more "experienced"... *laugh* Gee, I practically sound like the very people I detested in the poem, those who broke the perfect unstable love and called it experience...