A Near Shakespearian Love

There are moments in time, very brief pauses in the monotony of my thought, when I think to myself; ‘Maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t have to be so hard.’ But then the moment passes, & once again the only thing that I’m left with is my inability to understand the causes that led up to the demise of the love I thought I had for everything that lives & breathes. Not the Shakespearian love, I’m sorry, I’m not that much of a romantic. But considering my own personal bounds of romance, I wished everyone to be loved. To be loved, after all, is mankind’s most primal of needs; to be loved, to be accepted, to be cared for. But then, one day I woke up, & I realized, this world does not care for the poets & painters that remember the ashes to once have been a burning desire, I realized this world only cared for the bankers & the economists whose love for green was limited to only the ink on paper that makes it so precious to the world. & that is the day I realized that I, being the poet & the painter, & everyone in that context, am wasted on this world that sees not but one color, that knows not but only one kind of ‘love’.

Yet, I use my words today to tell you that my love for you is still strong, still haunting, and still very much alive. Because this love is who I am, this love is my identity; this is love is my all. I write to tell you that I am the poet & the painter. & whenever you feel the need to be loved, return to me, because it is for you that I am alive. Without you, my love is lost. & so am I.