He swirls the rising smoke

From his burning lies

Never letting It fly far enough

To the blinking skies

It drops down defeated

Hiding It's cheeks from his blow

Standing up, It's legs wobble unsteadily

Like a newly born doe

All It wants is to be free

From It's home of chackles

To finally reach the stars

But It only finds his cackles

His hand swirls and swirls

Until he's sure there's nothing

He takes another drag

Like the wolf; huffing and puffing

Love is not a choice. Love is like a arrow. Not a cupid arrow, because cupid doesn't exist. A wooden one. One that can splinter if you raise-aim-fire at something too hard. Love is easily splintered, with pieces stabbed into your finger. the more you try to pull it out, the deeper it gets into your skin until you know you'll never get it out. I know, harsh for something about Love, but this was the best thing for me to explain the pain and hurt you have when your in love.

Love is also like a pomegranite. As you saw it in half, you see the juicy, red seed encased in the sour white outside. As you plop the teardrop in your mouth, you notice the fingers stained with blood and know that it won't come out for a very long time. But even with the stain that makes you look like you dipped your fingers in reddish-purplish paint, you know it was worth it. Wasn't it?

Who is Love?