It is

It’s his in and her out.
He loves a boy, and knows
That should his love be shown
His own home would become
A place of disgrace
Claiming to never have known
The face of his heart.
But his heart still growing, still blooming
Would crumble not part by part
But to ash.
She, does not believe love to be real
She only knows what she feels
When man moves inside of her
This is her thrill.
Teeth and nails and sweat are her games.
She gives for more
But getting less for her trade.
Her soul is not her own,
But is a slave to founders
Of the great unity of states.
She guards their portraits in jars
In walls, and yards abandoned by time.
This is another game,
Of hide, but never seek love
Because love to her is but a myth.
It has only ever been a trick.
Love is but a mask of grief
But in reality she lost love to a thief.
It knocked at the door of her heart
Time and time again,
But she would never let love in.
And still he cannot deny
The overwhelming cry to be
With his lover and true bearer
Of his heart and soul.
He found the one,
Seven years ago.
But they hide to this day,
For fear of what kin might say.
Two worlds rip him at his seems
And his lover tends to these lacerations.
Why is it like that, that love must hide?
And why is it that love is not seen
By those who have touched
And breathed it in their midst.
Love is a mystery
Because love is defined.
Not by reality, but rather
By lyrics, and screenings of lies.
Love is not perfection.
It is ugly and tough,
And few make the cut to know
That love is worth the ugly stuff.


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