There ain’t a thing in the world that’s secure.
Nothing in the world that will make one happy.
Nothing that’s certain, or can be your safety net.
It hurts to see the one you love hurting,
Yet it hurts even more to try and make someone you love understand you,
Yet it’s impossible.
Love isn’t a word.
It’s a feeling of indescribable magnitude of pain and anger.
Of anguish and anxiety.
Of care and curiosity.
It’s an overwhelming need to show affection, and wanting to be claimed.
A feeling if wanting to be wanted, but wanting them more.
An absence in the heart of a missing piece when they’re gone,
Yet when their prescience is yearned for, it’s not there.
The feeling of wanting them to want you just as much or even more.
The lingering of loneloness…
The feeling of hurt.
Destroyed to pieces because you care.
Love is a crime.
Love isn’t some fairy tale bullshit that people put into your head.
Feelings are not a matter of control, but the uncontrollable.
The horrible realization of a non mutual understanding.
No, it’s not going to work out.
It’s always better to just be by yourself.
No one to harm you, no one to disappoint you.
No one but yourself.
The weight is something of an undescribed notion.
You bear it because you care,
Yet you’re not strong enough to carry it on by yourself