Untitled

Even it kills me

A hardworker, or maybe we can call it a workaholic, might say, "I'll do the job even it kills me."
Murdered by his own job. The one thing he loves ever.
Love can be so harmfull. An exessive love. Love of some'thing' in the world.

What is love exactly?
Does it felt by heart or mind?
Should we love with heart or brain?

Is love a thing?
Is it touchable, or is it absurd?

Worthy.
Something worthy, is something labile. Unconstanable.
Along with time.

Mortality.
If there is something mortal, could it be always happiness?
Such an old fashion.

Sacrifice.
Is it wonderfull or is it fool?
Fool about suffering himself. With no feedback.
Can we call it selfishness?
Who? Who's the victim afterall?

Please leave.
Please beside me.
And do nothing, please.
I need you to stay shut.

Even it kills me, I'll stay right there.
Waiting, of something blur.