I Am But A Broken Heart
-I Am But A Broken Heart-
It is nothing more than the desire to feel love, to have love. To embrace its lips upon mine only to smile from the savory bliss it gives. But I am a heart, a broken a heart. A heart that has fallen to the emptiness of pain. I am a heart that finds calmness in solitude but aching in idleness. We are created to love, to pump the extraordinary, to make what is impossible, possible.
But I am broken, broken in two indifference's that find strange amusement in the scarring of love. Giving no relief from the reminiscence of the bloodied former. I am but a shell of heart, screaming for the hand of love. But no throat resounds. No hands come to stitch, no voice comes to sooth the rapids of my veins. For all is locked behind the melancholy gate. I bleed like the rushing of rain. I no longer beat the vibrant feel of life, but pump the thick salted tar of sorrow.
I am a desolate heart, caged behind hollow ribs, vibrating with echoes of love lost. No longer do roses rise from the bosom of my rhythm. Dry are the rose buds that once sprang like crickets from fields. Now blackened like forgotten charcoal upon forgotten pleasures. I beat no longer as strength, but as pain. Pumping with sour misery, burning the lips of any kiss.
I shiver with fear to the marriage of commitment, which spoils my demand for the flexible. For no heart of an artists wishes for constraints. For the heart of a composer wishes for love but longs for the excitement of whim. The chains of creation have bound this heart and love has left a grisly path. The wishes to venture such a path have grown dull, but still shines with candle light of desire. No steadiness has found home here. Only the broken and shattered have found shelter, but find no peace.
Shadow's have seeded within and sprung like weeds. Chocking the hopes of life, of love. I am but a cemetery of love. A closed gate and only the mind has the key. For my words have never ceased but are neglected with closed eyes, castrated from the canals of the ear.
It is nothing more than the desire to feel love, to have love. But I am a heart trapped behind frozen walls. Walls that freeze the soul and brisk the blood. Walls that suffocate the breath of warmth and kill the blooming of flowers. I am but a heart born to the existence, of an abandoned keeper.
How badly have you let love hurt you?
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It is nothing more than the desire to feel love, to have love. To embrace its lips upon mine only to smile from the savory bliss it gives. But I am a heart, a broken a heart. A heart that has fallen to the emptiness of pain. I am a heart that finds calmness in solitude but aching in idleness. We are created to love, to pump the extraordinary, to make what is impossible, possible.But I am broken, broken in two indifference's that find strange amusement in the scarring of love. Giving no relief from the reminiscence of the bloodied former. I am but a shell of heart, screaming for the hand of love. But no throat resounds. No hands come to stitch, no voice comes to sooth the rapids of my veins. For all is locked behind the melancholy gate. I bleed like the rushing of rain. I no longer beat the vibrant feel of life, but pump the thick salted tar of sorrow.
I am a desolate heart, caged behind hollow ribs, vibrating with echoes of love lost. No longer do roses rise from the bosom of my rhythm. Dry are the rose buds that once sprang like crickets from fields. Now blackened like forgotten charcoal upon forgotten pleasures. I beat no longer as strength, but as pain. Pumping with sour misery, burning the lips of any kiss.
I shiver with fear to the marriage of commitment, which spoils my demand for the flexible. For no heart of an artists wishes for constraints. For the heart of a composer wishes for love but longs for the excitement of whim. The chains of creation have bound this heart and love has left a grisly path. The wishes to venture such a path have grown dull, but still shines with candle light of desire. No steadiness has found home here. Only the broken and shattered have found shelter, but find no peace.
Shadow's have seeded within and sprung like weeds. Chocking the hopes of life, of love. I am but a cemetery of love. A closed gate and only the mind has the key. For my words have never ceased but are neglected with closed eyes, castrated from the canals of the ear.
It is nothing more than the desire to feel love, to have love. But I am a heart trapped behind frozen walls. Walls that freeze the soul and brisk the blood. Walls that suffocate the breath of warmth and kill the blooming of flowers. I am but a heart born to the existence, of an abandoned keeper.
How badly have you let love hurt you?
Thank you for reading, like what you read?!
Then get a copy of A Man's Traveled Heart
Please Subscribe
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