MENTAL SLAVES OF THIS THING by “Adre17”
I grew up perceiving love as something so
red color painted
Heart structured and red Rose flower-scented
Before coming up with my own definition
I agree with love having number of Translations
And none agreed to be the final conclusion
Love ain’t game of hide and sick
Where one you see you can’t just poke and pick.
See, that moment in love helplessly we’re falling,
It starts just like an air raid-siren wailing
Against ignored attention strongly appealing,
over somebody e’er dreamed or never.
We found ourselves in hearts’ detentions
Something operates just mysteriously as an
Iceberg wrecking MV Titanic in Atlantic,
and brings the impact of drowning the Motor Vessel.
‘Man-down!’ the floods are in the blood vessels,
altering regular heart-beats music too faster,
as if we’ve been racing against the Black Panther.
We lose control.
Some admit the heart ain’t smart but rather clever,
Some cry, some curse because they’d sworn
to surrender never,
But they get pulled over again,
they are gripped by the force as mysterious as
death magnetics, and they are Ghostly-haunted,
having the uncounted sleepless nights.
There is no voice on this new heart’s choice,
we are so surprised, so astonished like the
congregation witnessing vandals defiling and
Stealing from the holy altar.
It’s defined as an active present,
we claim “it whispers from the distance”
getting all we need and changing our perceptions.
Some believe taking the under-dose,
they insist being conscious, no be two legs-drowned,
tantamount to the overdosed,
they become so scattergun binoculars,
the fools in stupor, Blindfolded moving objects-like,
unable to self-track their own foot-printed trajectories!
All falling with either sad or happy ending stories.
Sometimes it’s like snake’s venom causing death
call it Coup de Grace in some’s world-better-places.
The rich say it can’t be bought still,
the torn-pockets claim not to get it all.
We sometimes take it in a photograph,
viewing it from all possible angles,
the obtuse coming up with critics,
the acute observing if “all is well”, frozen,
he arts in frenzy, doomed in there where a shadow
never casts, and eyes don’t close.
Some looped in multiple spasms of anger,
in the battle against self-defeat,
hooked by vodkas, manhattans, the Gilbeys and all the liquors,
weeping with gusto while fighting for the ok,
trying to ignite the pop ups of joy which don’t promise to stay.
With this thing flying like a garden butterfly,
where some got lifetime hustles leaving no stone
unturned into forever searching for this thing.
As we struggle, repeatedly haunted
Defining itself as it’s worth fighting for
And that’s love For One you dying for
Remaining absolute surrendered defeated soldiers
None antagonistic, zombies to the inner orders
On so called this thing,
just sweeter as nothing
But still bitter like sting,
And we become the hard die, the solid “mental slaves of thing.”
