Rushin from the deserts of our hearts
through the mind till the end
still finding each other..
Across the barbs human indifferences...
The transcendence of suffering has reality
The feelings gets hold of one..
A grip so hard to break
The feeling if ignored doesn't let one be himself
Being in love with someone else than oneself
It continues on unfaltering into forever,
Carrying the lucky beneath its tattered wings.
If unlucky gives much pain, sharp, cutting pain
feeling unlike any others
this pain comes with memories like daggers and knives and spears
But Still we say
"Love is for the broken, the scarred, the tired, the weak
It is only through suffering that one can truly understand beauty
That is why art is love,
Why literature becomes a mistress
Why an artist can never be tamed
Nor owned at all.
An artist is the property of
Both heaven and hell – Not even owned by themselves."
I don't belive in luck
What is love anywayz??
