Masochistic love
Is my love a sickness, then,
since pain is all it offers me?
The hollowness of its deficient lethargy
is like a creeping wasting weakening disease
that eats you up from inside cell by cell;
and yet you can't stop loving still,
as if the very pain and torture of it
was the heart and meaning
of the neverending trauma
that keeps growing like a cancer in your heart,
an ache and ague worse than any physical defect,
like that old man on Sinbad's back
inflicting just excruciating pain
for seemingly no other reason
than to make you feel alive;
and that is reason good enough to go on suffering,
to go on smouldering in tortured silence
for the one and only hope of some release some day,
of any kind; but until then,
just let me keep on loving
in the endless torturesome exhaustion
of my self to keep it growing on forever
in its total and unbearable consuming pain.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
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Written on 2007-04-22 at 11:09
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