I. The Need to Understand Love
Before declaring a mutual love relation,
we must first grasp love’s true foundation.
Those who suffer heartbreak\'s blow
often lacked the truth to know
how real love feels, how it behaves,
not just the fire, but how it stays.
The ones who’ve never seen or felt love true,
nor how it looks or what it dares to do,
are perfect candidates for wounds that stay,
where trauma carves its quiet, aching way.
They might mistake the false for what is right,
and hold a shadow thinking it is light.
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II. Love as an Unknown Language
Imagine someone blind from birth,
asked to paint the sky and earth—
a sunset they have never seen,
a light unknown, a fading gleam.
When the canvas shows their try
but fails to match the evening sky,
the heart grows bitter, full of shame—
though they were never truly to blame.
It’s the same with love misunderstood:
we chase a dream we think is good,
then name it “true” with fragile trust,
though it’s just longing dressed in lust.
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III. Conditional Affection
Imagine a lover, with gentle delight,
who powders her ass with care applied—
each day, with baby powder fine,
believing such love is a holy sign.
And she declares she loves this man,
but let us pause, and understand:
that claim is grand, perhaps untrue—
her love may be the powder’s dew.
She loves how it feels—smooth and sweet—
the way it softens where skin might meet.
Not him, not heart, not voice or name,
but just the balm that soothes her shame.
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IV. No Powder, No Love
And the day he can’t afford that grace,
and sandpaper takes the powder’s place,
that day will see her mood decay—
she’ll curse him hard and walk away.
The foolish man will sit and guess,
consult his friends in deep distress:
“Perhaps the sandpaper was too rough?
If I had moved it slow enough—
she might have smiled, not burned with hate,
and maybe love could still feel great.”
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V. The Cost of False Love
But the truth, when heard, will crush his chest:
she never loved him—not at best.
If she had, from the very start,
she’d never let him spend that part—
the money, time, and daily chase—
on powder just to soothe a place.
She’d say, “Let wind and weather pass,
it’s not so bad to bare one’s ass.”
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VI. The Cruel Contrast
He spins in thought, so lost and vexed,
emotionally drained and deeply perplexed.
He never learned what love implies:
its truest form is sacrifice.
And what would stress this guy far more
is if misfortune knocked his door—
to see that woman, cold and free,
with someone else, so easily.
To watch the way she acts so kind
to the one who holds her heart and mind.
She’d never guard or hide her flame—
with him, her love would not feel tame.
She wouldn\'t just let him smooth her skin
with paper sand that’s wearing thin;
she’d ask him with a steady zeal
to file her curves with sharpened steel.
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VII. The Truth About Real Love
And this poor man, confused and burned,
would sit and let his memory churn—
recalling how, with wounded pride,
she called him “insecure inside.”
She blamed his thoughts, his anxious cries,
and said he saw through jealous eyes.
But what he missed, and never knew,
was something simple, pure, and true:
That real love never makes you guess,
or sit alone in silent stress.
It never makes one feel unsure—
its presence strong, its essence pure.
It doesn’t let the heart decay
in fear of being cast away.
For when love’s real, it lights the space—
no one should beg to feel in place.