Heart feels recklessly uneven, taking more than it should. Why wouldn't you give.

Sadistic laughs in front of the mirror, finding humour in the scars of the past.
For I force them not to hold me back, their better place in the past. But the deeper pains of the journey through life seems destined to last.

So I count on the age, time slowly passing through me of the very chapters of life through every single page.
And I can't miss my role in this story, so I'll be forced to engage.

Count on the age, but not counting long enough on time in itself,
For secretly the single seconds steal my wealth, or have I confused it for health.

Perhaps maybe, but maybe won't answer the question,
But it seems to lead to justifiable depression. The type for a while, for only a session.

But all from a recklessly uneven Heart.