These are just words on a page,
But they originate,
From where I think my heart is.

The same place that tells me,
That I've always loved you,
and could never stop even if I wanted to.

The same place that shows me,
Those things in life that are worth living,
Aren't worth nearly as much without you.

But sometimes the words can come from blackness.

A different place that sits near a pit,
Adjacent but distant,
This place is a house of torment.

The same place that tells me,
That I never deserved your love in return,
and will destroy it even when I don't want it to.

The same place that shows me,
My own demons that serve to entrench me,
In my own shallow misery.

These places exist in the same domain,
And I hope you see this,
With the hopes that I can explain,
That the things from the pit don't hold as much weight,
Nearly as much as where you sit,
Near the place where I think my heart is.