Can the heart truly have feelings?
A mass of muscle, tissue, an organ
With not a neuron among?
If a knife were to slice my heart,
It would cease to beat,
And I'd fall to death.
So when I think of you,
Why do I still have life, have breath?
A fire roars in my chest,
And blades serrate my heart with venom.
But you do not bear the weapon--
It is myself to blame for the mess.
You are all that enters my mind.
In night, in day, in dreams, awake,
And your love is the only cure I can find.
A/N: Written in summer 2017, edited spring 2020
YOU ARE READING
The World's Ending Now
PoetryPoem anthology made up of my poems from the past few years. Sometimes dark, sometimes meaningful, sometimes random.
