They say poets write about love while they sleep.
What do they know of love, what secrets do they keep?
I write about love, not knowing the word.
It is just an idea that seems quite absurd.
I read their words, and follow their lines.
But all that I hear is 'love is blind.'
But it see's my pain, and my growing fear.
Love can see just fine, it just can't hear.
It can't hear my voice when in full despair.
I scream, and cry, but love just sits there and stares.
Go on love, just watch me wither and die.
I can live life without you, while some won't even try.
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