my heart, my heart,
it beats, and beats,
and beats around my aching chest,
my empty chest
like some cathedral
ruin'd by time like all the rest
where stained glass windows,
scarce intact,
let in the light and make it shine
and echo 'round
the hallowed halls
and sing like some old hymn divine -
and i just need
to find the words
of this old hymn, and write them down
and shape them into poetry,
so that the lark can free be flown
but all the words i write are wrong
my aching, empty, ruined words
are clanging 'round my chest like bells,
they smash the silence, break the spell,
and yet my heart, my heart, still screams
the notes of songs I cannot sing
they screech within my chest and, though i sing,
i cannot seem to bring the notes
onto the empty page;
the page is full and still i sigh.
and so my heart will shout and scream
and beat until i die.
i'm aching to create but i'm never happy
