Living With Love Poem by Stanley Oguh

Misclarity. A feeling unknown to the
soul,
undecided, indecisive, unassured
filled with hope.
An emotion stirring and growing to
be recognised,
rising in recognition as it climbs up
the rope.
Sometimes it leaves a trace of such
stubborn pain,
to leave it's mark on the heart that
wishes it away.
In an alternate dimension it shall be
internal joy,
and the heart shall appreciate it and
ask it to stay.
But what do they call this?
They call it love.
An emotion commonly mistaken
for lust.
A bridge built upon a foundation of
common trust,
usually established as a blessing
from above.
So many tales and stories, poems
and lyrics of songs,
they speak about love in ways
beyond the realm of mind.
We can only picture in our heads of
such strengthened bonds,
but in the world today we create
them with eyes so blind.
They slander love with shallow
words of lust.
They just take trust and crumble it
up,
only to throw it in a corner like it
was never enough.
Deeply shoved under the rug,
they slice every hug with ridged
scissors. They leave you uneven;
they give you no reason.
There is no reason to bleed in the
same hands that play in your pain...
the same hands that wave you
away and never ask you to stay,
just to blame your name so that it
never sounds the same to you.
These are the same hands that
took a blade to your mind and your
wheels,
so when you find the sense of you
that you feel is real,
you have no choice but to still be
still.
Hostages.
Still, we fill the empty holes that
once spilled with the feel of the
thrill.
They slander love without hold on a
love of their own.
I don't condone never really being
home,
while you roam for warmth to help
you feel less alone.
Are you comfortable in what you
sleep in? What holds you the
deepest?
They caused me to release this,
Because they slander love with no
intention of being it.