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(March 23,1982 / Washington D.C.)

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I've Heard It Said

I’ve heard it said that love’s an invention
that we envision whenever we’re threatened
that our individuality’s on trial,
when all we hope for is wrapped in another.

I’ve heard it said that love’s a convention,
a fear that anything different leads to resentment,
that perfection’s tarnished when we’re harnessed
to the interest of another narcissistic nut
imprisoned in his or her own head,
I’ve heard it said that love is dead.

I’ve heard it said that love’s an intention
to do unto others what leads to our salvation;
love is patience, love is vacant,
love is a nation to which I’ve vacationed
through kindly acts and gifts of the soul
that can’t be touched by anyone,
but it’s no place I’ve lived in.

I’ve heard that love’s a point of contention,
something we’re bitter about ‘til revengtion,
for when you think you’ve loved too many
someone reminds you that a few are a lot
when your heart is killed to start a new start,
but everyone does it as a first resort.

I’ve heard that love’s a chance for redemption,
but that’s a theory that I’ve never tested.
It’s a chance for us to unite in dissention
in a unity of lust and passion,
something I should’ve never indulged in.

I have learned that love is a dimension,
a land of fantastic hopes to get lost in,
somewhere greater for us to be tossed in.
It twisted through my fingers like sand,
a beautiful creature I held in my hand,
something I loved since I knew who I am,
someone I relied on until I was damned.

I refuse to believe that love is just tension,
there must be something they didn’t mention,
something unspeakable in words,
a beauty perhaps that I haven’t heard,
love is, I suppose, a beautiful bird
that at this point just hasn’t nested.

Submitted: Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Edited: Friday, July 26, 2013


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Poet's Notes about The Poem

This was an attempt to articulate the many things that love is. The metaphor at the end was just a poignant icing on the cake.

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