My Love Is Her Poetry.
I woke up today not caring for a love I do not receive, but began declaring a love only to the one that will show the need of my being. It's their art painted personality that's worth me seeing, not a woven canvas that has been "creatively" pigmented with a superficial gaudy acknowledgment, just to falsify a colorful portrayal of astonishment. No. I have been illustrating words of intellectual and perpetual meaning that intern became multiple love letters of credence, thinking that it would be prudent. So now I feel as if the love I have defined in those scriptures of my heart, where perceived as having some substance, but ultimately... I guess to her, it is inane and worthy of being unconsciously dismissive. Not pertinent enough to be important, because it is irrelevant due to the obstacle that builds the hurdle between us... call it distance. To me, this deceiving facade of an obstruction to love is not just. It’s not competent enough to depreciate the priceless nature of love. So what can I divulge to her cognizance, that hasn't already been conveyed with utter confidence, which would sway her acceptance to indulge in a true consideration of my love that indeed solely exists, only for her? I have transliterated my love for her with many intensely imaginative interpretations of my feelings. I do not write poems of a love declaration, simply to fill papers with literal decorations, nor do I write poems for the feeble embellishments. I do not seek coequal congratulatory ratifications that are only temporary and sometimes nugatory, due to the fact they do not fully grasp the true gravity of its personal importance to the author of its origin, or the reason be that as it may, that it is not translating to the intended receiver. How am I to make her a believer?... To make her believe that my love would not dare deceive her? How can I proceed to show her that she would be conceiving in a future that is thrifty and promising, and become her certainty in a world lacking thereof? How? How can I encompass all the literary wit, explaining all the intricate bits of a true love that just is because if not, I myself, without it, would prominently not exist? This is it. It's not a 'say it once' and hope she succumbs to it. "It" being the poetry as opposed to the love for her that resides in me. But this is it...Love, and giving her every medley of its entity. So when she reads this dead honest reality of my feeling's factuality. I hope that now she will finally comprehend that these words may have created this poem, but this love was always her poetry. ©2012 PreVayl
