To love and not be loved,
Is like having pen in hand and paper before you;
Blank, stark, empty white.
A void that cannot be filled.
All the times you remember
The efforts to please and encourage;
The need to be loved in return…
Like a lost baby bird that dies while you sleep;
Unaware of the tragedy until too late.
The deepness of desolation that no-one,
No-one but you can know.
The hurt of suspected things of what are,
And the complete agony of what you feel should be.
Like the tide going out, somehow, not to return.
It will heal.
For you still live;
Even if it seems a shallow, gray sea of depression and loss.
You will heal.
In the darkness of loneliness and despair from your loss,
The love that you give is never for anyone, but yourself.
It proves that you are a thinking, feeling human being.
The light at the end of the tunnel, truly,
Is only the knowledge that if love is not returned today,
It will someday come about that the world will love you
In it’s turn for your effort to spread love across it.
Whether from a friend, or lover;
Concern and praise, rebuke and insult,
Are all aspects of the love they feel for you.
It’s a difficult thing to maintain;
Like a garden in the desert sand –
Only love will make it grow,
And only love will mourn its loss.
So love your desert of despair…
For out there, somewhere,
Is your garden.