What's love

Life is short but they won’t admit it,

love runs through veins but it don’t matter if you can’t live it.

What good is love if, when you need it,

the ones who swear it still don’t mean it?

They say love heals, but it leaves you scarred,

gentle in whispers, then it strikes you hard.

It builds you up, then breaks you down—

a cruel comedian, you the clown.

What’s love if it don’t forgive?

If it won’t protect, if it won’t outlive?

It’s more than a word, more than a flame,

more than a promise, more than a name.

What’s love?—it’s the pain and the bliss,

the silence, the laughter, the touch, the kiss.

It’s staying to fight when leaving is easy,

a vow that holds when the nights get greasy.

So I ask again, in the face of loss,

is love a blessing, or the heaviest cross?

Maybe it’s both—that’s what I’ve found.

What’s love?

It’s the force that keeps us bound.