What is love? Is the beating of your heart, or the falling of your soul? The softness of your hair; a token at a toll? Can it satisfy hunger? Obsession? Can it influence paths? Perceptions? Directions? Oh is it just a word? That makes you shudder, whenever you feel it's presence? Never true to it's definition. Shouldn't love be great? Rushing my blood and quicken the pace, as it touches my lips? Why? Doesn't it? Is it anger and thrust? Maybe hearts lust? Hidden in the universe, never to be found? Swept through the door, light as dust? Looking to tear worlds into pieces or spark something anew? Only to bring it back to square one soon? Oh, what is love! Can it be seen? Can it be hugged? Can it be cleaned? Can it hated? Can it be cut? Dropped in the sea, does it drown without a revival? Does it stab through your chest with intent to puncture the mind and demolish the body? Does it bleed? Does love cry out pain? Or die. Quiet and tragic? What? Is? love? It's never truly genuine. Merely exaggerated. Unauthentic. Love? Love is a tool to fill in the spaces. Love is a tool with desiring faces. Love is a tool we use in vain. Love is a tool that causes pain. But of all the things, That Love seems to flaunt. Love is a tool, To get what we want.