Love.
Without it
the world wouldn’t stop with grief
but burst
with strangling roots thrown to the compass,
tightening white bands that drive us mad,
and we’d hate.

Love.
Sometimes,
it wilts away from our grasp,
and unwillingly
we steal it, struggling to paint flowers on the world,
even though we hate.

Love.
It can appear
without the slightest prompt,
a rose between thorns,
a soft pink light guarded by iron,
glorious but untouchable comfort,
and we abandon hate.

Love.
It can be a bind,
cold green ivy that we let grow,
that clutches beyond the soul,
lingering always,
the petal’s touch or emerald poisons,
and love itself is hate.

---

P.S Love poetry isn't really my thing, but I had to write this for my english class. It was then entered in a local competition, where it won second place for my age category. The word and descision of a judge is not really a big thing, so I will be eternally grateful for any reviews!