Unlucky In Love
I do not fancy myself lucky in love
Truth be told I hold myself to fault.
Perhaps I dream too much often
And sometimes, maybe, I dream to a fault
But then what must a man do?
For all I have done,
I have had in mind my happiness to secure.
The price of this perhaps is to love with a fault
To not blindly give all
And hopelessly hope that all will be well.
Sometimes perhaps, my mind is too insecure
To understand truly what it is to love.
To not lean upon fate to decide my course
This I may say really is my fault.
In this matter I have no choice
I was not made to lean towards uncertain things
I believe only on things that always hold true
One of such that love is not always everything.
So yes, I am not lucky in love
And yes it is really my fault
I have built my life with a belief
That I must always do things right.
If then the cost of this is love
Then it is gladly my fault.
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
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