They say love is art... so I became her canvas. Her crayola stained lies ****** the blue out of my sky and 'ain't no sunshine when she's gone' so it's always night-time.
See, my first poem about her was suppose to be a love poem, "The heart wants what the heart wants"
closes eyes
My chest uncontrollably recoils as ballistic thoughts bounce back and forth erupting mental modern warfare... as agitation is called on duty and ghosts are the only visuals being visioned behind closed lids.
These ghosts seem so much safer But these ghosts got me in a safe And I'm seeing these ghosts' faces As I'm running through this maze and you'd think I'd be amazed But this maze is the safe And the ghosts' face ...
opens eyes breath of relief
The ghosts' face was, It was her.
The heart wants what the heart wants and mine seems to be infatuated with the one invariably leading to my cardiac arrest.
Your I miss you's leave the river dry *** you can't cry me a river with I guess it's a dry cry when you cry me a river of
Somet
drafts......
"The Heart Wants What The Heart Wants"
It's like the title of this once unfinished poem, turns me into a fiend. My eyes bleed, and inevitably, agitation triggers a pain so (painful), immune to morphine, oh lord I think I feel it in my spleen.
"The Heart Wants What The Heart Wants" and ion mean to be mean, but the fact that this is a poem me and the person I'm in love with started, is probably enough to drive a young man like me insane.
"The Heart Wants What The Heart Wants" and I've been meaning to start writing... but every time I try to write,
Countless nights of... "papi" replay itself in my mind and I'm rendered weak in the knees to the nostalgia it brings.