Comfort is deceit,

to a naive mind in search for something.

As we live foolishly amongst the word ‘’love”,  we’re bewithered with the idea of,

what we deserve VS what we settle for.

I'ma fool to believe a promise was meant to comfort the needs of my mind.

As though, I love harder than

the thickness of his hands across my face

the hard belt slithering briskly down my back

And the sweat and blood rolling down like a barrel to a hill.

 

It’s the warmth of ones soul

which we seek, in hope to find where we belong.

As it’s also ones curiosity in which we finds answers.

 

Though we lack the ability to open our minds

we allow our: eyes and ears

carry us away to the world of “hope”.

Hope that one day, we’ll find something.

But as I sit, into the state of mind, in which I overthink.

I hold my face troubled, in denial that this is love..

or is it not?

 

I hurt like the sting from a bee

As it’s the deceit we get from the comfort of our summer days.

The joyful runs and happiness across the faces of people

Though it’s the beauty of butterflies, bees and birds

That we don’t see the capabilities in its angelic appearance.

 

What is love before we can judge what it isn’t?

Isn’t it out of love which he places his fist against the jaw of my face?

Love deceits in it’s cold comfortableness ..