There's a heart
on the floor,
growing in the corner,
right outside my bedroom door.

It pulses,
constantly in shadow's light -
it's the heart of darkness
it feeds off itself in the night.

B-Bump...

B-Bump...

Echoes outside my door,
that relentless beating
reverberating inside my body -
tainting anything whole and pure.

In the dead of night
even though out of sight,
I know it's there,
it's slimy tendrils rooting
down into the surface of its lair.

A parasite
roosting off its own black flesh,
the same stagnant blood pumping,
its body occasionally jumping
as it beats, prolonging its curdled life,
feeding off war
feeding off strife
feeding off my own life.

Then I get the knife.

B-Bump...

B-Bump...

My own heart beats in unison
with it,
as if a desperate message
shrieking from its festered spirit.
But I carry on
sink the knife in its diseased core
picking it up, stuck to the knife in a clump,
where I throw it out the window -
it landing on the pavement below with a sickening
'thump!'

... two months on,

Now it's gone
I'm all alone
but my life's still a dump,
for at night, when no other sound plays
I can still hear that consistent, hellish
-

Ba-Bump.