All Poets Are Liars

Lovers' paradise, eternal longings, heightened desires, heart's rekindled fires!
Hence the notion found early in ancient thought that all poets are liars.

The truth remains there is no gain in any fulfillment of our comprehension
And all affairs somehow ends much before life's suspension.

Once the honeymoon phase has passed, the lovers seem tensed, and it becomes a play of attention

The needs are done,
The fools we become
Dangling onto each other's obsession.

He once loved me well and I loved him too
In this trap I fell
He wore a mask, I ignored his faults
And I called this love true.

Poet's talked about virtues in love
And loving beyond distances and time
I'd rather say we only love, nothing more than
What's right in front of our sight.

Had I never known him, nor he me, we would have never faultly loved
But here comes the poet again saying we only meet each other with luck.

And luck is such a futile chance
We meet, we love, but never with mutual intention.
And this luck bores nothing more
Than some momentary display of affection.

Which of course ends,
And everything is only left to be mend—
From our insecurities, disappointments to our egos and defense.
And we choose to loose (our commitment)
In order to seduce
The girl in the office, or even someone we've never met.

The poets talk about erotic passions
Lustful wildfires
Sparkling eyes
And orgasmic delights.
But how many of you end up having
Every love making
With mutual interest
And not eventually on their terms?
The kisses turn stale
Love in the eyes has gone pale
And the lofty sighs become irritating to your eardrums.

And so I say
Love is just a life lived in some hypocritical way
With no muse or sense—
An affair of pretense!