A churlish thing.

I sit and contemplate 'that' word
For the life of me.. I know not why
It is a word that sits uncomfortably
A stranger in a land laden with such thoughts .

'Love' is made of childish things
That once this mind new well
But now all too often it is my jailer
There to beat my life and soul into a cage.

I have 'loved' many things and people,
I have 'loved my life and family
But in reality what is love if it can't be true
Or in fact you are not true to love?.

I stand and take a bow to the points it has won
It pays me no respect or dues... nor i it
Save for children that love unconditionally
I am unloved. So be it. I am still me.