Fools are made to be broken,
truly broken,
since fools,
as fools do, fool about so foolishly.

Ah, to be young and foolish,
to bask in the Tom or Jane-foolery of
To be fooled once, twice, then shamed
over and over by the foolishness of love,
to rush in where angels fear to spread
gentle wings, so white,
you’d be foolish if you did not find them heavenly.

To play fool,
or to be played fool—
no difference to the heart;
it seeks to be heard
above a thousand, hundred fools
screaming, yelling,
so loud you can’t hear it say it loves you back.

Foolish is as foolish does.
Selfish is as selfish…is.
To be foolish and to be selfish,
of the same make
since to love
is to have been foolish.
Since to stay if one does not love,
is indicative of
the selfish fool.

Oh, love. A fool’s errand.
The foolish heart speaks encyclopedias
of foolish words, and adjectives for beauty
only learned because the fool has fooled around
with syntax and dictionaries,
fooled away with logic or reason or sense,
to fool with the foolish sentiments of other fool hearts,
foolishly beating too rapidly,
foolishly blushing too red
at the attention of foolery.

But to be nobody’s fool—
this is something not so foolish,
to let the heart make a fool of itself,
to love unselfishly
unfoolishly loving yourself,
before you can unfoolishly love others.

Fools are made to be broken.

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