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.

Gucci mane describes it best when