=Philosophy of Love While I would never dare argue the Bard Has not scribed many great rhymes for romance, I find one specific line of his marred, Towards the end of the doomed Moor's drear rants. For any who've felt love deeply would know That though outcomes we can never foretell, Lovers should never adopt the credo That one can "love not wisely but too well." Wisdom and love are two separate matters: If we were wise, we'd abstain from ardor; Love tears wisdom asunder in tatters. And of them, finding true love is harder. Real love can't be measured, planned, or assessed, Nor bounded by eligibility. True love leaves lovers enrapt and obsessed, Not pondering presentability. True, this love that I write of is passion, The kind which, too, can bring heartache and pain. But such love transcends beauty and fashion; It's love that prospers in giving, not gain. If one strives to apply calculations, Factoring in wealth and prospects and schools, And only to those deemed "right" love rations, Then they know nothing of love, the poor fools. =Paradoxical Love Love is a demon who wields terrible power. <i>    Love is a cherub that alights bearing flowers.</i> Love blinds and debilitates, enslaves to his will. <i>    Love sustains so our destinies we may fulfill.</i> Love possesses his victims, stripping them of sense. <i>    Love is a blessing, against despair our defense.</i> Love is the sire of all wretchedness and woe. <i>    Love is their cure, sunlight to dispel all shadows.</i> Love incites madness, violent mood swings, and grief. <i>    Love gives us happiness, from loneliness relief.</i> Love goads his victims to commit horrible acts. <i>    Love throughout time had even more pleasant impacts.</i> Love will forever be the worst bane of mankind. <i>    Love's in our Nature — it's for Love we were designed.</i> =Emptiness v.2.1 Oh, how empty are the days with nothing to do: A husband at work, a lover across the sea. How empty is my life with no will to succeed, No desire to work, to write or return to school. How empty is the prospect of not knowing where To be, what to do next, or what I even want. How empty seems the future, or so depression taunts, Since my days have long been shadowed by cold despair. How empty seems anything I've ever done in My life, for in the end nothing will have mattered. So what if any dreams and hopes are left shattered? I will be judged not by intentions but by sins. How empty are my dreams when I've never set goals. Instead, I masked the void with thoughts of finding fame, Or extinguished my mind with futile tasks and games. Because, I know, the emptiness is in my soul. =To My 'Brother' My brother's the sort who's always enrapt With some pretty new girl or another. He swoons and he sighs, that silly brother, Til I'm wondering if he should be slapped. He gives his sweet heart to so many maids; They, though, hold him in a differing view. They keep him when sad, then bid him adieu When their own troubles and fears he's allayed. My brother has lost as often as loved, Though that heart only deserves to feel joy. He comes to me then, an unhappy boy, And bemoans losing his latest beloved. But though I do wish my brother would learn To think with his head instead of his heart, I also can't help but admire in part His desire with such fervor to burn. =Apple of Discord I cannot deny     That I still remember and pine. It would be a lie     To say that I'm perfectly fine. The city still looms     As Paradise Lost in my mind, From which I was cast     For tasting fruit sweet and divine. The Garden's perfumes     Will for evermore be entwined With thoughts of the past —     A rose from now'll more brightly shine. In summer, I know,     Will Eden again be enshrined. To know is sorrow     When now I'm in Limbo confined. =That Night — What if I had kissed him, Even if he had not tried to kiss me? What if I had lulled him with caresses? Would he...might he have stayed that night with me? Sweet memories had lingered, fresh and foreign, As if from an instant and yet aeons ago; Though we met as friends, not lovers that night, Still I wished him to stay 'til the morrow. And, oh, he too said then that he wished it, To spend that night lying by my side. But we wavered, inconclusive and torn, And then,...he left me to go catch his ride. And that night, I was too hurt to wonder What might have happened to us if I had. But now I am left to ponder: What if, On that night, I had kissed that muddled lad? =The Sad Fate of Laurent O, dear Tristina, Tristina, you must not lament, You could not have foretold the sad fate of Laurent. A gallant soldier was he who marched onward through tears, Having just lost her whom he had loved all his years. Those who strode beside him tell me he spoke of your name And conveyed what had passed, grieving he was to blame. They say he seemed dismal, despairing over his plight. Yet in such a state, he chose to enter the fight. He fought boldly in battle, charging into the fray; Some even thought he cared naught to see the next day. Still, it could not have been planned when he fell to a sword. Though they do say 'Tristina!' comprised his last word. O, but mourning's in vain: it's too late to be sorry. Smile, cruel maid; you, by your scheming, still have won me. =inescapable it's true, it's true that passions fade, that love can die; excitement wanes. and that's why you, if by love swayed, should not rely on escaping pain. =insanity i loved someone madly; i knew not what to do. though he hurt me, sadly, that i loved him still's true. with him i had found bliss; i relish what we shared. it went beyond a kiss; to him, my soul i bared. it transgressed an affair to a romance sublime. nothing else could compare; it's engraved for all time. <blockquote>yet i did always know we were doomed from the start. and still i also hoped to our fortunes rechart. but fate cannot be changed no matter how you try. some things are prearranged, so to myself i lie. i've tried to since forget; i know i should feel shame. and i have much regret; i feel the brunt of blame.</blockquote> but it's not for my crimes, for sinning, i lament. no, it's for all those times without him that i spent. god, why did i love him? no one could be more wrong. no reason could i've limned why with him i belong. i only know how i felt, that's enough for me. forget the reason why; love is insanity. =Untitled Suffer all the painters; They see beauty in the plain. Suffer all the actors, Who so deftly enact pain. Suffer all the singers; They sing mostly about love. Suffer all the players, Whose instruments are their love. Suffer all the dancers; They torture themselves for art. Suffer all the sculptors, Who with shapeless masses start. Suffer all the writers; They make stories come to life. Suffer all the rhymers, Who have filled their lives with strife.