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Why You Should Evade It

Poetry By: Kathleen Megquier
Poetry



Ever since I encountered 'love' this year, I feel as if it has destroyed me, ate away at me, made me go completely mad. I lose sleep, I feel guilty to eat. His voice constantly narrates my thoughts, dictates what I want, need, or long for. I've been fighting off the need to be near him recently, but still, it's only been three weeks, three weeks of utter insanity. If I surpass this, get through this, and be able to write about my triumphs, you all will be the first to know. He's like a cancer.


Submitted:Aug 2, 2012    Reads: 7    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


The strange rarities that appear in my deluded visions, shows compromise, which leads to the majority of our division.

You are no longer you.

Scarlet lips, piercing eyes, lax expressions, passionate thoughts, a popular evolution, evildoing, transformed into this thing, this image I can't pinpoint whether to love, or kill with my bare hands.

The misled stand for nothing, I fall shamelessly for everything you show me, tell me all these pretty things that I hope someday will change me.

Irreparable I am, I'm not dense to this fact, you don't have to write it on the walls, the letters and markings of this truth need not follow me.

I get it, damaged, always giving the product away for free, until it's nothing but this dash of scholasticism, and this mundane perspective towards the living.

In theory, the insane's prognosis, depicts a reality where things pan out accordingly.

Dreams, wishes, exist in ones thoughts, present-day occurrence, revolution! Outstanding.

Everyone gets what they ask for, no matter how outlandish.

We soak up in our unattainable romances, but this time these lovers are real, devoted, priceless, no need to shield ourselves from it.

We wake up, finding not only them there, but them willing to stay.

We grow old, fathom a life with children and bliss.

The sickness is this, we believe so feverishly that these ideas are true, that loving a single person is enough, returning the favor is a must for them, for us.

But it's not.

Simplistic reveries will be the death of human pleasure.

We're complex and fair weather.

He'll leave you bleeding in the street.

The children, the house, you can keep.

His presence too psychotic of a price to pay to keep all you hope for, pray for, to turn out exactly how you've once envisioned it all happening before on a night when things like these seemed probable.





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