Exacted from those ready to toe a line
Only to be quoted as a misnomer
Past acceptance, when the selves emerge
Each shall deem uniqueness, to their toil
And the fruit of it shall be called sweet
But in the shadows, the regrets only stir
A pot of foolhardy misplaced sentiments
It is a man's curse to shun intellect for fancy
To be drunk on the fallacy of intrepid dreams
The waking is as rude, stigmatic, and scarring
Such is the effervescent barrage of unloving
Yet knowing so, I have often loved and I do
For, to love is to feel the human absolution
And nothing can be as ironic and humorous
Than to laugh at one's own silly slippages
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