Why Does This Heart Beat?

Why Does This Heart Beat? 

How does this work, my heart?

Why does it hold its rhythm though I do not dance? Does it not see the agony that hangs from it? Does it no see the shrill of misery that flows from the spit of my tongue?

Its lush beats keep these ragged bones shivering. Though they shiver in fear they find reason to build. To stay attached to the fibers that hold it together. I walk with these bones and I hear them murmur in the cracks of my joints.

I hear them, the creaking, the screaming, the bitter exhaustion of wanting rest. But still I move, as does my heart. But why drag this withering body through the fields of the ripe? I tend poorly to my own flesh, my own soul.

Why does this heart bleed so, breathing in, exhaling the platelets of my body? Does it know what I do not? Is there a song I have yet to compose, a poem I have yet to spill, or a heart I have yet to break?

This strange thing beneath this rugged chest. It beats, it holds rhythm and song; all the while I dispute its reasoning. But foolish am I, for what it speaks, if followed has never led me astray. Never has it discarded me in the weeds of the dying. Leaving me to be dragged to hell by the emaciated; by their shriveling hands.

Its crimson tone brings color to my skin though I find no perfection among myself. Would it not be better to leave me pale; as faint as a forsaken painting by a maddened artist? Never to see the sun, nor the moon.

To let me decompose atop a lonely tower at the tip of midnight lips. What oddness this thing brings as all I see is agony. The wailing of former as water reflects what others do not see. Am I not but a mere skeleton of existence? A frame work of what does not function as anticipated? Am I not but a sketch of what was never completed; for there was no reason to bring forth such art that is but made of sundry mistakes?

Crumbs of an eraser covers my canvass. But they had done no deed in negating what has been done. For there is no attainable course to polish a pearl that is shattered.

What does this heart know that I do not?

Why keep a corpse walking among the living?
Thank you for reading, I truly appreciate it!

We all have our out look on life and ourselves. As long as our heart pumps, there is something out there for us.

What do you wish to achieve?

For more poetically poised stories, A Man's Traveled Heart
coming soon, The Bleeding of Words
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Instagram: @poemjunkybiffle


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