Forces That Made Us Thinking

Sorry, Even If

It is me even though I write poems

Though I don’t like to read it

Nor the poems of many

It is truly me. Even though liking

Is what I can do

But loving it,

Full of expression of my insincerity and emotions,

Is not what I can do

I am sorry, but this is like a fever

A silent, sick fervor, that to love is not truly,

A necessity, not needed,

And we only do it to just represent

Just a lone emotion that could waste

The Lively and the full-spirited ones,

Just its lonely, loathed nature, of love,

Nothing else

It is me even though I only perceive,

Love, as a tendril that entangles

All simple lives, turning to intricacies

I only perceive,

Love, as a translation of sufferings,

Of different meanings of solitude

But they publicize, love, as full

Of affections, and dramatic instances

Of plays, acts, and melodramas

People are truthfully blinded by love

How much she has brought to the world

That is why all my understanding is like this

For I am not yet blinded myself

By Love herself