Its 3am and nothing else.
To write a good verse, I need a heart.
Just one.

There, a showcase. Hearts of all types.
You connoisseur of broken. You say,
Here are the ones that gush the most blood.
Owners of poetry, verses that quiver.
these are raw, raw, raw.

Ah, yes, you moan and lick your fingers.

I shiver.
Some veins are just thicker.
Come, you say, *I see those hearts won't fit you,
Try these ones on discount.
Plastic copies on a platter
for people to pick 'em.