I Am Not A Thief Of Love

Poem By Matur Achuil

I met my Y's X last night,
And I could tell he was ready for a fight,
Judging from his protruding jaw-bones
My Y's X is the type who thinks that
If they lose everything to live for
They can always find something to die for
He accuses me of stealing his Helen of Troy
But I am not a thief of love
I would rather rob a bank then steal love.

As we bypassed each other he gave me a look
The kind of look you would give a puppy who left a poo poo
On your neatly made bed
I could hear him mumbling as his face melts into a mechanical smile
That kind of a smile a jackal gives his companion over a carcass
He was consoling himself with his own words and thoughts:
"…after all he just picked up what I threw away; my waste…! ", he told himself
My Y's X is the type who can see an eagle soaring higher and higher
And be like: "It is flying because it is unable to walk"
He does not want to admit that I am holding what he could not hold;
Something too good for his arms and fingers to hold and caress
I never stole from him his love
I would rather rob a bank than steal love.

For a very, very long time I had been following him,
Praying every step of the way that he falls
But I never wanted to push him down
I wanted to be in his shoes without stealing his shoes
I was waiting for that time he would drop the pot of honey he was carrying
So that I could pick it up and cling unto it the way a moth would to a source of light
I was doing right all that he was doing wrong
While he was hurling insults at her I was composing melodious songs to sing to her
While he was spiting on her beautiful body
I was buying perfumes to spray on her beautiful body
While he was stepping on her head as if her head were a piece of trash
I was making a crown to put on her head for she is a queen
I don't I deserve to be called a thief of love
For I would rather rob a bank than steal love.

Comments about I Am Not A Thief Of Love

An excellent piece of writing, Matur. Thank you

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I lost not for profits but benefits
I give not to take but to make
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The intrigues of pain will be printed.
On my voice, even though jubilating
The cry of lived sorrow will be heard.

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If I could undo what I did
I swear I would
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