Anything is Our Love

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  • Iridesse
  • is loving the way the words flow, the body glides and his everlasting love

Anything is Our Love

It sickens me to think of you
A prevalence of void
Ungodliness.
Immovable.
Damned. Gifts.
An overblown sense of 
Your own 
Importance.
I wish you were
Dead. 
Quite alone.
Fantasies of lust.
Long cries of distant
Crows calling for
Me.
The human condition
To desire 
Impotent love
Which does not exist has
Fallen in grotesque
Disappointment.
A perfect imitation
Of forbidden appeal
Resides in the one
Who loves the deepest.
Ha. I’ve just lied.
That person only wishes to
Say
I hate you.
Every sign of bad 
Love is said to 
Be a far, lonely and hurtful
Feeling.
Journey I shall say.
I remember a time where I 
Loved him, more than
I loved myself.
Are you suffering now
When you hear my blatant
Voice screaming for you
To redeem all hell which
You have surfaced 
Upon me.
From the past.
But it can never be taken back.
Taken.
Forgotten.
Damned.
Beaten.
Oh how you savior in my pain. 
When you see the blood trickling  
And tickling my heart.
Yes this blood comes from
Your love.
That so-called love.
I am nothing more to you
Than that sex toy.
The girl who plays
Doctor or house 
With you 
Every night.
I want you to see
Beyond this girl,
My body.
Beyond it all.
Something more deep.
But I will never know
Till you learn to love me.
I spoke to him last night.
Lost for words.
Lost of thought,
Spirit,
Mind,
And soul.
I wanted him with 
Me and 
In 
Me.
Plunging 
In 
And 
Out. 
And lying to me about 
Everything else.
Anything no longer means something 
To him.
The word I use to explain
Our love.
Anything.
Our love is yet anything,
But nothing.
Empty.
Blank.
And mournful.
Is our love.
Enduring.
Deceiving.
And hurtful.
But daring,
Powerful
And lustful.
Taken.
Forgotten.
Damned.
Beaten.
For once I will make the 
Choice.
No longer casts under
His spell.
No more journeying
Of his “member”,
“Partner in crime” 
In me.
I will not let myself
Believe that my love is 
Just anything.
Rather something special.
Something more than just 
anything.
Something that I owe to 
Myself. 
To 
Be 
Loved.
It sickens me to think of you
A prevalence of void
Ungodliness.
Immovable.
Damned. Gifts.
An overblown sense of 
Your own 
Importance.
I wish you were
Dead. 
Quite alone.
Fantasies of lust.
Long cries of distant
Crows calling for
Me.
The human condition
To desire 
Impotent love
Which does not exist has
Fallen in grotesque
Disappointment.
A perfect imitation
Of forbidden appeal
Resides in the one
Who loves the deepest.
Ha. I’ve just lied.
That person only wishes to
Say
I hate you.
Every sign of bad 
Love is said to 
Be a far, lonely and hurtful
Feeling.
Journey I shall say.
I remember a time where I 
Loved him, more than
I loved myself.
Are you suffering now
When you hear my blatant
Voice screaming for you
To redeem all hell which
You have surfaced 
Upon me.
From the past.
But it can never be taken back.
Taken.
Forgotten.
Damned.
Beaten.
Oh how you savior in my pain. 
When you see the blood trickling  
And tickling my heart.
Yes this blood comes from
Your love.
That so-called love.
I am nothing more to you
Than that sex toy.
The girl who plays
Doctor or house 
With you 
Every night.
I want you to see
Beyond this girl,
My body.
Beyond it all.
Something more deep.
But I will never know
Till you learn to love me.
I spoke to him last night.
Lost for words.
Lost of thought,
Spirit,
Mind,
And soul.
I wanted him with 
Me and 
In 
Me.
Plunging 
In 
And 
Out. 
And lying to me about 
Everything else.
Anything no longer means something 
To him.
The word I use to explain
Our love.
Anything.
Our love is yet anything,
But nothing.
Empty.
Blank.
And mournful.
Is our love.
Enduring.
Deceiving.
And hurtful.
But daring,
Powerful
And lustful.
Taken.
Forgotten.
Damned.
Beaten.
For once I will make the 
Choice.
No longer casts under
His spell.
No more journeying
Of his “member”,
“Partner in crime” 
In me.
I will not let myself
Believe that my love is 
Just anything.
Rather something special.
Something more than just 
anything.
Something that I owe to 
Myself. 
To 
Be 
Loved.

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Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

Iridesse’s Poems (5)

Title Comments
Title Comments
DA KNOWN POETS 0
Mold Me Into That Woman 1
Forget Me Not My Lover 0
Lets Make Poetry 1
Anything is Our Love 0