You can make sense of everything,
articulate them into feelings and such,
but in the midst of translation to words,
the all too familiar shards of recognition and logic collide and compounds this potential illusion.
My thoughts are not deserving to be read, to be acknowledged by you,
but some may say that is merely a solitary view.
Who am I to judge myself,
but more importantly who am I to judge you?
I’d have never wanted to discard this common thread, frail but still tensile;
yet the weak spirit struggles to rise up and there she goes,
falling backward, away and away from where she wants to go.
Still in denial of what I’ll do for you;
I reckon it will last as long as I’ll never know that my heart,
My heart, that is now in use, will keep you.