a comparison, a few questions, and a realization on love.

[Obloquy]

Hello. This is a poem. Critique as you may, hate as you might, love as you also might. Thank you for taking the time to read this in any matter.

#O~
Why has love spurned so much literature?
A better question to ask, is why,
why am I adding to this vast heap of
infatuation, pain, and dependence?

Some write of how they hate it.
Only the heavens know of the loath I feel.
It's a strange sort of despise.
My heart may sink, yet it still floats.
When I wish you'd drop the anchor,
you continue to add weight to my shaky sloop.
I can only hope I was meant to go around the world
with my boat.

Some write of being stuck in an abysmal confusion.
I am pushed to and fro,
as the waves
swing
left
and
right.
Why most you evoke such a deep confusion?
I am lost in my own mind,
pondering what the inside of your mind is like.

And finally, we write how we love the feeling of love.
(a subtle oxymoron seeing as
we may never be able to describe love properly)
The feeling of feeling is more powerful
than the most destructive weapons the loveless possess.
It brings people together, ignoring distance,
Brings a greater ecstasy than falling from our sky,
And by the end of my poem I make the realization
That I always make when I think of you.
My love is meant to be,
because after a rough day, when the sloop is in it's port,
I know I am bound to the sea.

[tramiant]

I can't tell if this poem is about an ongoing love affair or about a hopeless infatuation with someone the speaker doesn't even really know, but observes. I will say though that the annotation really took me out of the poem in the middle of contemplating as I read.

[ScurryFunger]

Hello. This is a poem. Critique as you may, hate as you might, love as you also might. Thank you for taking the time to read this in any matter.

#O~
Why has love spurned so much literature?
A better question to ask, is why,
why am I adding to this vast heap of
infatuation, pain, and dependence?

Some write of how they hate it.
Only the heavens know of the loath I feel.
It's a strange sort of despise.
My heart may sink, yet it still floats.
When I wish you'd drop the anchor,
you continue to add weight to my shaky sloop.
I can only hope I was meant to go around the world
with my boat.

Some write of being stuck in an abysmal confusion.
I am pushed to and fro,
as the waves
swing
left
and
right.
Why most you evoke such a deep confusion?
I am lost in my own mind,
pondering what the inside of your mind is like.

And finally, we write how we love the feeling of love.
(a subtle oxymoron seeing as
we may never be able to describe love properly)
The feeling of feeling is more powerful
than the most destructive weapons the loveless possess.
It brings people together, ignoring distance,
Brings a greater ecstasy than falling from our sky,
And by the end of my poem I make the realization
That I always make when I think of you.
My love is meant to be,
because after a rough day, when the sloop is in it's port,
I know I am bound to the sea.

I don't think you meant spurned, I think you meant spewed.