The story in the Heart

There are stories in our hearts, things we really shouldn’t tell.

Memories bought, we couldn’t think to sell.

If we could trade, we surely would.

I don’t know what to say even if I could.

If we show it all, what kind of criticism do we face?

All the things we break, like throwing roses into the fireplace.

Writing wrongs on the chambers of our hearts.

Fixing things with the remaining parts.

And we love regardless, but it’s all wrong.

Swimming through our playlists to find a single song.

Nobody cries, we do that alone.

Only with ourselves but it’s never shown.

We are deep, and insurmountably strong.

But the sun goes down and focus shifts to wrong.

Another pack of cigarettes.

Birds don’t fly with their feathers wet.

The cruelty of life gives us power.

That power fades in that latent hour.

Sticking it through might leave a bad taste.

But so does the last cigarette in the case.

And it’s suffice to say, the story in the heart is one of joy and pain.

Like any good book, the cover isn’t plain.

Like any good heart, the soul isn’t tame.