So Maybe Love Is Overrated

it never had been me, to wear my heart somewhere conspicuous, for the whole world to ogle at. it might seem so, though. nevertheless, i know i can try as much to articulate my thoughts into some perceivable art and still end up misunderstood–that is, if a consciousness did try to take effort to exhibit a semblance of interest. perhaps i would go back again and again to some of my previous epiphanies–those that did not change with time. they are not my structures. they’ve been here before, just that i decide to honor them with my agreement. right on.
i was being a smartass. i understood what you meant. just that, perhaps i was only toying with your rage–try as i can to snap your threads. then when i succeed in doing so, i may laugh at you. i can not possibly love an object of a joke.
yes. my words are hypocrisy. of course. i tell them not in a manner deemed for one such as i, in a language less composed, less elegant, of an ancestry lacking arrogance. we are not people with ambitions and plans goodnaturedly brainstormed over with divines. i tell you, to claim to have spoken with god is . . . controversial. on the one hand you have the knowned medical words they call for people who hear voices. on the other, you have people whose faith in miracles could never waver. semantics, my dear. we can call a thing with different names, yet it will stay one and the same thing.
perhaps there is in poetry things that incite fear. maybe a fear that what we have been standing on might suddenly fall. such as schizophrenic saints. but i tell you, my friend, your words and i cannot make less truths of things that already are. i am inasmuch a shaky stance as any mind i might possibly speak to even if unintentionally. is it not that this constant threading over two entirely different halves that very remaining thing that we so always fear to break? like saying , i am crazy, but thinking, since i am aware of this insanity, then i could not possibly have lost my sanity yet. then going over to what the people both from our time and before have collected regarding the workings of the human brain. knowledge is good. perhaps i am only one of those who think that trivias and you-know-whats contain pleasure. i am always in a wait to be awed.          
somebody accused me of telling tales about her. ha! oh, you wish, don’t you? this is with bitterness, my friend. you, unknowing of the few stories i’ve treasured. you mock the pain i told you, you caused me. it is real. so be it then. i’ve had had worse than the loss of you.
i can not force myself to tell of love when they have placed their hands to both their ears, shouting, "no more!" so be it. my love does not need approval. it is my right. and if you reject it, i will respect that. maybe i have lost my romanticism and have grown weary with the many images that could have come with many silent whispers. i feel like a starving child with fantasies of trucks of ice cream and a mountain-high heap of chocolates. if only i could go inside my head and join my imaginations for good, and leave the ugly reality behind me.
my humor stays though–although a sleepyhead it is. wake it up prematurely, and you’d realize your obvious mistake. but it is there, somewhere in a room. just waiting . . .