Baracades of love

Admittedly morbid but from the heart. Free thoughts not articulated in typical poetic format but truthfull and expressive.

The point of life is to live; to experience all the beauty of the air, the earth and the ocean.

This elequent theory has kept me tumbling forward for years.
Finding love in the skies,
and passion through the trees.

But will there come a time that I'll breath enough air and smell too many roses?

On occasion I feel a raindrop of raw, wet love but drowns in fear and doubt.
I want to resuscitate it,
Cherish it,
Let it live a long privileged life.
But my soul mirrors that of a stationary dream where I can't run, walk or punch -

Punch down the walls my heart has built from bricks of pain,
Of torture,
Of abandonment.

But I am scared. So god damn scared. For now,

If my love is only pain then I want to stay numb until my last breath.

If love for me is poison then I will die of thirst.

If my love is death then I want to live forever.

Or is what I feel simply the burnt ash surrounding the complex flame of real love?