There’s nothing more endlessly frustrating than when you’ve spilt your heart out for someone time and time again and they continuously shrug it off as if you’re delusional. Especially when, the same person you’ve expressed your feelings for has reciprocated their feelings for you. They’ve said the same things, done the same things, and yet refuse to allow themselves to actually feel the same things you do. I’ve been in places in my life where caring has hurt me. Where it has left me questioning everything I believe in regards to love. Yet, here I am making what seems like mistake after mistake, like the puppy that just won’t learn its lesson. I pour my heart out and she mops it up with the same muddy water she uses to see her own reflection. She doesn’t want to accept the fact that maybe, just maybe, I, better yet—we—could be the real thing.

The words written in ink with pen and heart

Leave unwanted scars on undeserving pages

Screaming emotions like lovers pushing each other apart

A tale played out in multitudes over the ages

 

Etched in concrete his love’s throe

Her denial an effortless addition

To his plentiful amount of torment and woe

She destroys his hope with her concision

As if his Love is but merely for show

 

He carries on despite the pang of his love’s dismissal

Trying and failing to what point even he knows not

His heart full, yet empty, lost in cold so abysmal

Exploding with love and fear so fraught 

 

For love is cruel and marked by fear of pain

He’ll spend his nights droning his affection

Showing hope is kind and not prone to wane

Proof, one can be perfect in their imperfection