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A Churlish Thing

I sit and contemplate 'that' word
For the life of me.. I know not why
It is a word that sits uncomfortably
A stranger in a land laden with such thoughts.

'Love' is made of childish things
That once this mind new well
But now all too often it is my jailer
There to beat my life and soul into a cage.

I have 'loved' many things and people,
I have 'loved my life and family
But in reality what is love if it can't be true
Or in fact you are not true to love? .

I stand and take a bow to the points it has won
It pays me no respect or dues... nor i it
Save for children that love unconditionally
I am unloved. So be it. I am still me.

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