" fuck a love "

---

rant enclosed below:


love huh?

is it true as they say, and just who the fuck are "they?"

i punch love in the neck.

love leads to a broken heart, a broken soul, a broken life. you're left in the broken shards of displeasure and feel altogether worthless, used, jaded, and depressed.

the fractured pillars crumbled along empty streets and the universe echoes in despair. and no, i am not well. this is fine i believe. who would want to be fine after you feel your entire being doubted and ushered towards the unknown direction of what is beyond the door of rejection.

i throw a brick at love, then spit on it's twitching carcass.

even ebert knows what's up, although disguised thusly subtle in a movie review. he still speaks true does he not:

" Is there anything more pathetic than a lover who realizes he (or she) really is in love, after all the trust has been lost, all the bridges burnt and all the reconciliations used up?"

yes. we are pathetic. human qualities dictate that we have a genetically-sequenced predernatural inclination to falter before the promise of love. the absence of love from my heart has made my feelings toward such a thing so extremely polarized, how can one get out of such a funk even at this young age? how?

i take love out for a drink and kick it in the alleyway.

displaced passions. irreplaceable feelings with no adequate substitute in sight, in heart, in mind. we roam through this world harboring fears of loneliness, and burdened with the happiness of the past. it's the strongest person out of love who puts forth their game face; smile beaming ear to ear as if all is well.

who wants to move on? who can stand to move on? what is it that we are constantly searching for, if the one truest love has already decided for you that they would just rather not, sorry sir, this is your stop and you must get off.

i push love onto the train tracks.

and yet, you must move on, cause living in the past is worse than death, it's worse than heartbreak; the memories strain and blur in an attempt to recollect the culled goods. you begin to settle on good memories, transfixed on moments that made love real, and true, and desired.

and sorry, unfortunately there's no reconciliatory advice that anyone can give to you that will make you feel better, if you yourself do not feel like it.

i place love in a box of memory, of cluttered remains, and seal it away in the closet, to be burned at a later as-of-now unset date.

meander whatever your path you may trod along. i'll be by the curb, cursing at you through the the darkness for merely existing.

so go on, love, go on. if i say i'll give you another chance, i probably will, but i won't pretend i like it; you done did me wrong, straight up and stone cold.

i give love a second chance, step up to the platform eager and willing, and wait holding my ticket at the station.

---