Love is not what it seems. It is not a delicate feeling that makes one bubbly and light inside. It is not flowers and sunshine. Birds do not chirp. Rainbows do not appear. Life is not happy and perfect. Love is the opposite. It is a cruel weapon. It is a dagger in my chest. It is the only thing that has been able to slow down my thoughts and freeze my hands. The body has two masters, the mind and the heart, but he can only serve one at a time. The mind is capable of creations, such as songs, books, plays, novels... the mind is responsible for success. The heart is at war with the mind. Not red, but black. Black is the love that fogs up the mind and makes it impossible to formulate a sentence. The heart turns the truest genius into the biggest dope. It ties a rope around the hands of a writer. It wavers the balance of a dancer. It confuses the mind of a philosopher, and it pierces the stomach of a warrior. Love is the reason so many end up in a neighborhood house with a small family and an eagerness to fetch the mail. Love simplifies even the most ambitious of men. Love was created with the same pen as anger. It festers up inside its vessel and takes captive its owner so she becomes someone she didn’t know she could be. Love is the reason for this angry sonnet. Love is the reason that the necessary wall between me and you is now broken, as I acknowledge my writing, for it no longer matters; I am no longer an author. I am, instead, a prisoner. I have tried every way possible to find a way out, but the harder I fight it, the stronger it becomes. I wish, by God, that it would leave, but, unlike the mind, the heart cannot be controlled. I have died, for I have fallen in love.