The Irony of Love

Isn’t it ironic how those that love us most hurt us the worst?

They are crimes without passion,

No intent or ill-thought, and yet

They are committed everyday.

Isn’t it ironic how we let our own lives consume us?

Our dismissive eyes lead to ignorant minds,

Our thoughts welcome distractions from reality.

If only our eyes were to pry away.

Isn’t it ironic how we learn to ignore the small things?

In every hour, every second, every moment,

A soul is weeping after the cruel slap of apathy,

Until the momentary pain snowballs.

Isn’t it ironic how those that love us most hurt us the worst?

Forgiven until the very fibres are worn thin,

Until barely a skeleton of love remains, and

Finally, we realise the height of our walls.