It is until your heart gets pulled in different directions
and sweetly manipulated into taking another form,
that you start to analyze love for what you thought it would be.
You pour your heart out on paper
because you were never brave enough
to speak the words that would stop this manipulation...
the prequel to a broken heart.
It is when words start scraping its surface
that you think how you got into it,
knowing you'll never get out.
Expressing your reactions to no one but this ivy ink on hidden lines.
With vague excuses of why it can't work
and with empty promises that were swept away,
your heart loses its strength
and its pieces are painfully drawn by gravity.
It is when he says he loves you
that he tears it up and stains this notebook...
It is when he kisses you, unaware it was the last time,
that the saddest words come to life.
It is when you see him with someone else
that you realize that he, who was never yours,
will never be.
No matter how hard you think he'll come back and repair it;
it is until your heart is pulled,
torn and broken that you are left alone to fix
what love has done.
It is until you live the consequences of love,
that you write down the most tragic story he'll never read.
You can never write something decent
until he breaks your heart.