love is a fickle thing,
jumping from one place to another,
sometimes it fizzles out
while other times, it blossoms.
for my sister,
i love her well,
but when her fickleness comes to pass,
i shudder in annoyance.
for my mother,
love is mutual, as it should be,
but interfering in beloved things
brings hatred in darkest form
on wings.
for my father,
love is a grizzled lion,
only admiration exists, however weak.
love fizzles day to day,
until merely a tenacious bond remains.
he speaks of change,
yet his deplorable temper remains the same,
day after day.
for my friends,
love is a fickle thing.
there is no passion,
no happiness,
merely a sense of well-being and belonging.
for myself,
self-love is hardest to find
in times where i loathe everyone
and myself.
but love is passionate when it comes to pass
and i embrace it.
Chaos of Life 