Knowing what you write and thinking you know what you write are too completely different thingsMature

Love is a strange thing,
It is blind,
it is merciless-
that is what I hear
and I didn't care, really
one way or another.
but I wrote about it anyway
we write what we know
or think we know
an incredibly dangerous thing,
I think.
How could you write about
Something you don't actually
but these little things
are strings inside us
waiting to be cut or snapped
or broken
isn't that what
we are scared of?
I still wrote it
like it was mine
that is what I thought
I was alone on a bridge
watching over the water
"that", I thought
"could be it."
"that could be love."
Couldn't it?
I was still wrong
I would always be wrong
until now
this is it.
I wrote feverently
I still couldn't come close
there were all these words
they seemed right
perhaps they are
these scars washed over our skin
glowing on our veins
like stars in the sky
the things we never wished
to exist
all these things disappear
if I'm going to get something right
it will be this
it will be you
people write what they know
or what they think they know
I know this
that these words
could not be simpler or
more difficult than
I love you.

The End

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