What is the Point?

In love there is the lover; there is also the beloved, many doctrines will tell you this. The beloved has the rare pressure of knowing they are the most sought after, and singularly desired 'object' of affections of another. Within such pressure, the urge to debase or humble oneself, somehow, often comes into place, or at times, the desire to hurt the lover, so that they may no longer be beloved, as they are, for it is no easy role to know that one has staked a most jealous claim over you, for the lover only can, and for this, there is little freedom for either. No, it is no easy job, to be beloved. For the lover, then, the job is simple; the duty is an unavoidable and constant will to please the beloved. Their job is also treacherous, because their love is unshakeable- it suffocates both lover and beloved, harming one, as it harms the other- to kill the one is just the same as to kill the self, and they will be tested so verily to prove their love for the other.
   Within love, the role of lover and beloved are often switched, as one soon learns they can love no more, and in no longer being cherished, the once beloved so wishes to make their sole desire the reclamation of the love they lost, and so they will do anything- through pleasure or pain, to keep their beloved to them, and so it is that they are debased, and in seeing their previous totem of love so sullied; the beloved then becomes humble, and takes the place, again, of the lover. The two can never love equally; there must always be disquiet between them; one must always love more, or less, than the other, for if they did not, both would die of lack of sustenance- both spiritual and physical, for they would do nought but love, as was the case with Narcissus, who was too full of self-admiration to have sense enough to save himself. It is a difficult relationship of swooping dives and climbing loops, beautiful and necessary as chaos, itself. But do not falter, this is just my opinion.

In collapsing under the pressure of love, I did so debase myself, and thus; debased the love that was so unrighteously coveted by me. I gave in to such fits of jealousy as do turn the other away and make them shy from their possession, knowing now that there are limits in place against them. In so coming to terms with this most sacrificial of loves, it does dawn on me then that all love is doomed. At one stage, or another, the beloved will always take flight- they will release themselves from your manacles, or Death will do it for them, and how, then, does one continue to live when that most precious organ that did make you so spirited, is taken away with them. Without the soul, the man is just a shell.

What is the point?

What is the point,

in torturing oneself?

Conjuring up such suppositions,

lowering morale.

Fantasising incidents,

despairing, as in Hell-

sitting in this solitude

is no good for my health;

happiness never finds a place

where depression is abound;

laughter has no melody

I wish to sing aloud.

Circumventing contemplations,

I tread on common ground,

 yet in languor I'm inanimate

while she is dancing, how?

And dancing she will find a partner

to lead or follow 'round,

and all of this I do so think

but wish to disavow.

Though once she did love me,

she will love another now.

What is the point?

What is the point,

in torturing oneself?

No matter that I wish to hold her,

she will not allow.

No matter how I cling to her,

she will only let me down-

though she tries to reassure me

there is no sweetness to the sound;

her words cut me with rejection;

I am slaughtered, like a sow.

As I die, I cry for mercy

but all she hears are growls;

in blindness, what I saw so fine

she only saw as foul.

What is the point?

What is the point,

in torturing oneself?

Since the day I gave my heart

to you, I've been slowly bleeding out.