I used to have a beating heart
that was warm and alive
and coursing with blood.
I used to hear it every day;
I found solace in its rhythmic thud.

But then one day the pulsing stayed,
and I tore it out in dread,
now my heart lies in the corner of the room,
colorless and drained and bled.

My heart’s abandoned, me, I know,
and I walk my life a shell.
I haven’t touched it since I died,
so it’s acquired a sour smell.

I used to have a beating heart
that I kept warm and snug
and safe in my chest.
Now I wait to hear it start;
and wake from its bloodless rest.

I’m not really sure where I thought this poem was going. It started off kind of positive, and I had every intention of making it ‘pleasant’…but then it kind of sunk into a sea of doom and gloom. Plus today is kind of an off writing day for me.

Art source: Heart in a Jar