My daughter had to write a poem about love today, so instead of reading my abnormal psych I wrote this:
All the same
Is love that thing that makes you sick
Your heart race and stomach churn,
A passion all-consuming, ravaging as it brightly burns,
set on path of pain and destruction if not returned?
Or is love that ever constant thing,
That fills a motherâ€™s arms,
Breathes into the soul hope and fear disarms,
Nurturing quiet confidence a not-so-simple charm?
I do not know what loves is,
Where it begins, the life and breadth of the name.
I cannot tell you its power, its beauty or explain.
I only know I love you, regardless, all the same.
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