Existentialist Love Poem

**NOTE: This is a piece written to be preformed, so there isn't an exact flow or form to it.

Existentialist Love Poem

Minds mutter in majuscules as hearts whisper for help
Pragmatic promiscuity stealing away the meaning of love,
It becomes an equation,
The broken down metaphor for a liaison,
While words worthy of wonder may be mistaken for inspiration,
The sanctity of love so marred so scarred,
Falls bleeding and broken to the pavement,
Because bright splashes of blood otherwise known as valentines,
Can speak louder than 1000 words,
And the black and purple of a greeting card bruise,
Make you feel more,
Outsourcing the paper ‘I Love You’s’,
Capitalizing on pain and greed,
Forcing you to feed, voraciously,
Twisting your heart with cynicism,
Relinquishing your heart to extradition by your mind,
Pragmatic thinking may help you survive,
Ironically you aren’t alive,
Imprisoning unexpressed emotion so tight,
That a bleeding valentine cannot fight,
So tired you can’t even feel,
Because you trained yourself how to deal,
And hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,
But you chose to waste it with pointless noise,
By forcing his attention in backseats with other boys,
Wasted faceless tasteless people,
Things innumerable, unfound under steeples,
They said pray to the lord, and what you want will be yours,
Because the lord died for our sins,
Now we die for him,
Yes I’m taking cracks at the divine,
But God died for YOUR sins, not for mine,
Nailed to metaphorical crosses of our own design,
Crucified by caring, damned by daring,
Satiated by situations spiraling senselessly out of control,
Because when pieces of overpriced paper express our hearts,
We never expect to succeed,
Because if giving paper is caringly daring,
Then trees love more than anyone else could show,
And like those trees,
Love grows slow, and flows slow,
I know you know so,
But we crave the design of a love without signs,
Or guideposts, goodbye notes that cumulate,
Ejaculate with untold sorrow,
At the absence of tomorrow,
We are sheep so we follow blindly,
A master who treats us all but kindly,
Twisting ourselves in the pathetic hues,
Of broken valentines of red and blues,
Showing the path behind us with ripped regrets,
Of rejected valentines only you don’t forget,
But we walk along our dark paper paths,
The forgotten “I love you” ‘s taste like lies,
And when the journey is over we sit,
And gaze at out lives,
Our realities dark against the coming sunrise,
Our paper heats beating bitterly as each one of us dies.