joi, 25 iunie 2015

To be in love

To be in love
sucks more than
love itself.

They both suck, actually.

Nothing sucks more
than the awkward sensation
of flapping butterfly wings
inside your stomach.

There you are,
a nice decent fellow
and the next thing you know
you find yourself smiling
like an idiot at the sight
of a devilish lady.

To be in love
hurts more than an open
without anesthesia
or a hundred broken bones.

To be in love
is a fucking disaster,
World War II reloaded
or just the simple equation:

(Hiroshima + Nagasaki)²

To be in love
is craving for attention
like an ego maniac
lost in the ego trip of
his own desires.

To be in love
is the blind gesture
of counting the petals
without realizing
the irreversible damage
you do to a flower.

To be in love
is forgetting to eat and
thus devoiding yourself of
protein and filling your heart
with maple syrup instead.

Worse than being in love
is falling in love,
that split second that led to
the retarded decision of giving
attention to the chimera
who will devour
your soul for the rest
of your life.

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