PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I am hurt, and hurt well

But not cold.

I cant be cold

In a room so well heated.



Between here and there is doubt

A sea of it.

A massive body of doubt.

It boils with passion.



Passions are fires

They burn, and burn well

Flesh and mind alike

They singe without prejudice.



That's why I hate them.

As hate is a passion,

That is a paradox.

Impossible as it seems,



It is.



A boy who cries is full of passions

Or so he should be, why else cry?

Why else demasculate himself?

Because as flames burn, passions burn.



And well.



Passionless and crying?

Another's passions sear him.

They aren't always yours you know,

Nor does it hurt any less.



Not even a little.



Freezer burn hurts just as bad.

And worse, you deny it.

No and no,

Until you've lost a limb to frost



And I have.



And I regret it.



And I hate both passions,

And the lack thereof.