The Phoenix
Love was when we smiled together,
Our laughs carried the fresh bloom of spring
I loved spending the nights with you
To me, it meant everything.
Now Love has changed its meaning; you can see it in the dark blue hues on my chin
Burned cigarette marks, cuts from glass chards,
To me, it meant everything
My spirits are broken, I feel no pain
Just scars of love, that you left on my skin
I want to fly again, but my wings are clipped,
You can’t keep me down any longer, now I hold the whip
I will fly again; these scars will be my honor
I will be an example of what comes with a thunder.
Love is fifteen minutes of fun in a bathroom with a married man. Love is getting married on a camera and sleeping in different rooms when the lights go off. Love is pornography with your best friend on the weekends and acting like nothing happened come Monday. The hieroglyphics once told a different story. A caveman clubs things to bring home to his wife who is making clothes and taking care of a baby cavechild. Then came civilization, making love more like a parasitic relationship. One leeches from the other, then moves on when they have had their fill. Now we are here, when love is just a cheap trinket like a nice car or a large television.
But no one cares anymore. I try to open as many eyes as I can, but the eyes rarely want to see. How could they see what is in front of them when Prince Lucas of The Netherlands is marrying some lowly Austrian Subway cashier. That is romance now. No one wants the old lovers that fight over juice and fart to communicate. They want young. They want Tindr and Grindr and Humpr. They want public and raunchy and impure. And I'm done trying. So, I turn off my television, log off of social media, and realize that no one will ever understand anymore, and no one will ever want to again.
Many Likes
Love has suddenly changed its meaning. I am the only human left on this earth who knows what the definition of LOVE used to be. So what do I do? Nothing.
I have the comfort of knowing that love (the old definition) never goes away; it never dies. It never changes.
People have re-named it, calling it "Like." Well let's break it down. Like is a small amount of growth in the hearts toward affection, kindness, joy and unbreakable bonds. When one gives or receives hundreds of likes, you have the term, "Many Likes." Las Vegas has a "Many Likes" chapel.
LOVE now means, "Living On Vegan Express" in a text (much like ROTF and LOL). It is simply the latest McDonalds.
So I decide to bake a potato.
Remember that old song, "Love Will Find a Way?"
Re-name it all you like, society!
I many likes my kids. I many likes to write. You many likes your pets and most of your family. Young adults are falling in many likes.
How do I many likes thee? Let me count the thumbs ups.
I will cry today at Many Likes Funeral Home, my friend passed and I liked her hundreds.
I haven't won a challenge in a while so give Della many likes but you only have to like this.
Love has found it’s way
Never thought that something like this would happen
Now that it has happened,
definitely it's going to remain.
Never ever thought that love will happen in life
Now that it has happened,
definitely life has found it's way.
I know it's the right way,
but then how far it will go,
only time can tell.
Better be prepared
It's the lull before the storm
The storm is yet to come
Let love be a part of your life
At the same time even the storm shall pass
Make sure love remains
Love is not the thing that was thought of prior
However, love has happened
Now that it has happened
Let's hope it remains
Definitely love has found it's way.
Today love means Tinder hookups
and Snapchat stories
it’s an emotion that can be bought
or fucked into someone
Love means more likes on Instagram
and more money in the bank account
I remember what love really meant
screaming at eachother, but never leaving
working through the problems together
love was intense, a passionate touch
that led to staying up all night
and promising forever
love was gradual
friends then dating then married
everyone came to celebrate the moment
when two lives were joined forever
love used to be the truth and now
love is just an excuse
Hmm...
If I was the only one who knew the previous meaning of love well I would attempt to spread it to as much as possible like jelly on a peanut butter sandwich. If those who don't listen and probably demonize me for it well sucks to be them. For those who listened and understood congrats you realized the meaning they changed it to was a lie. Therefore, you now question things.
Love in the Age of Rock and Roll
It happened suddenly.
One moment, I was sitting there, in love, having a nice glass of Chianti with my fava beans and kidneys.
The next, I was alone.
My wife of fourteen years had stood up, and walked out of our favorite restaurant, purse in hand.
The expression on her face looked for all the world as if she had suddenly realized she'd left the stove on at the house, and needed to immediately leave and turn it off.
I watched her leave, and then finished my dinner, puzzled.
Calmly wiping my mouth with an exquisitely smooth linen napkin, I noticed the other patrons experiencing similar scenes of distress.
People were stopping in mid-bite, dropping their cups or glasses, and then bolting upright, leaving the restaurant en masse.
It was a stampede for the exit, and they took little notice of other people as they stormed out the doors.
The managers and waiters stared at each other, dumbfounded, but then walked out as well.
I rose, and strode through the kitchen, where the delicious aromas of bœuf à la Bourguignonne, gooselive pate, cauliflower-basil soup and creme brulee assailed my nostrils.
I sniffed, and even though quite sated from my prior repast, salivated freely and my hunger rose anew.
The cook staff had fled, along with all the others.
I was alone again, naturally.
I leisurely strolled about, sampling a few items at random.
Some of these were common, but there was one thing I loved.
The hollandaise sauce was to die for!
I snacked for a bit more, and then I walked away from the venue, leaving a few crisp Benjamins on my table to cover the cost of the meal, and an ample gratuity.
Outside, people scurried about, looking alarmed at their individual predicaments.
I walked past a convenience store, haberdashery, and the cobbler, finally entering into my favorite cigar dispensary.
No one was there.
In the naked light I saw, ten thousand cigars. Maybe more...
Dismayed, I wandered about the humidor.
I sniffed and prodded at the selection, finally deciding upon an H. Upmann and two Arturo Fuente tubes.
These, I recalled, were choice smokes.
I remembered smoking some on the waterfront near the Ruth's Chris Steakhouse restaurant in Jacksonville, one fine night.
And, oh what a night that was, back in sixty-three if I were to recall correctly.
I stood there in the store, and, still alone, went about to mentally calculating the correct amount of my purchase.
Adding a suitable gratuity, I deposited the currency to account for the transaction near the register.
I laid the money near the gas butane cylinders.
I debated leaving a note, but the Proprietor, Robert, was an old acquaintance, and this was not the first time I had operated in such an efficient yet uncommon manner in his shop.
I cut the end from the Upmann, which I recalled as a particularly delightful number, and then proceeded to toast it with a butane flame from a Colibri lighter convenient to the counter.
Puffing carefully, enjoying and savoring the sensation, I drew in the smooth tobacco smoke, and watched as the perfect smoke ring I blew rose to the ceiling.
I loved to do that!
I looked around, and then, shrugging, left the fine establishment, having decided to forego the note, and simply inform Robert on our next encounter of the proceedings.
I walked the block or so back to my apartment, where I found my wife had hung herself in the bathroom, with her nylon stockings.
Her lifeless face was purpled, the once-beautiful eyes now a dull blue and bulging from her strangled face, a thin strand of saliva hanging from the corner of her mouth.
Small foam bubbles freckled her lips.
She was naked, and I frowned at my predicament.
Of course, I must report this to the authorities.
On the face of it, it was a simple suicide.
But, there was one complicating measure that was percolating slowly through my brain, and I took a moment to contemplate the scene.
My wife had kindly left me a note of explanation, you see.
I had noticed it, right away, since she'd scrawled it in her most luscious red lipstick on the mirror:
"What is love? Baby, don't hurt me. I want to know what love is. I want you to show me."
I indeed had my doubts as to its meaning.
For a while, I sat, stunned into silence, before finally picking up the phone and dialing 867-5309.
Because, I still knew what love is.
And, I knew where to find Jenny.
Because, Roxanne had left me hanging.
Tragic
Dear Diary,
Love. Love brings pain to others, happiness to some. Some never lose their faith in one day finding it, and some do. The meaning of love to different people was different, although it had one thing in common.
But now it has changed. Love is now a terrible word, almost a bad as the f word, and now means when someone was in depression, sadness, anything tragic, really. It was too vague.
It is stupid, I think, because I knew what this word was created to mean. That someone is bound to someone else, with admiration, looking beyond all flaws of the other.
My friend, Lola, is recovering from a tragic injury. Or should I say that she was recovering from love?
It’s funny because before now one would say love is tragic, especially when recovering from a heartbreak. But now love is truly tragic. No one wants to be in love.
What’s weird is that there’s no word replacing love anymore, it just simply is a feeling, a feeling that I couldn’t explain prior to this change, a feeling that no one can explain now. It goes unspoken.
I don’t know how to go about this tragic debacle. Or shall I say lovely debacle? Feelings don’t need to have words, feelings don’t need to placed into words to know how to feel, right?
One now simply says, “I care for you.” Not love you. And over time loves original meaning will be forgotten. Caring for is not the same as loving. Just like squares and rectangles.
I suppose I could attempt to explain to all the townspeople that love is simply not tragic to some, and to others it is. And whoever made you believe otherwise was going through serious heartbreak.
I suppose I would be killed as Galileo, for the elders burnt all books and killed all the people, except for me. Leaving behind little to no evidence of love, of the real love.
This entry will be enough, methinks. No one can bestow their anger on me after I die. The word love, is simply a word to express more than “caring for”, more along the lines of “dying for.”
I guess I’m trying to say I love the original word for love. For now, there is no opposite of hate. Now the highest level of liking someone is caring for another.
This entry means that I’d die for the word love. Meaning that I love it. I hope it is understood. For soon, if this is found while I am still living, I would be executed.
~ Amaris (9/27/2091), Mars
#love #tragic #future #words #care #contest
Unloved
I have loved, been loved and witnessed love
In its purest, most beautitiful form
But this day is unlike any other.
I am alive, but dead.
My most vulnerable heart on display
Dismissed, neglected, untouched.
Perhaps a kiss, a hug, a handshake
To spark a tingling memory of
A newborn’s first glance at its mother,
Touching lips under moonlit skies,
A ride home from the shelter
With a new, furry friend.
I am lost
In crowded streets with vacant souls
This feeling of frustration and longing
Overwhelms my entire being.
Do they not feel it too?
This loneliness, this emptiness
Of an unloved life. . .