This Beating Heart of Mine

This is one of my few non-rhyming poems. Critique is appreciated!

My heart sits in my ribcage,

Beating to pump my blood,

So that I may live forever.

But eternal youth is a lie,

As the cracks in my skin will show.

Rosy blood rushes about,

Rises to my cheeks when I blush,

Stays at the surface when I bruise.

My heart encompasses (theoretically)

The people I love.

There aren’t very many of them,

Those people I let in,

But they’re there, so that’s what matters,

Most in the end.

I love my sisters,

I love my paintbrushes,

I love my books, (those lovely tales)

And I love my pencil,

Used to create new things every second.

For when I draw, when I write,

My soul is set on a silver platter for everyone to see.

However, if you come closer,

You will see that my heart is surrounded with barbed wire,

Shock-fences and other defenses.

Just to keep it safe, you know,

From prying hands and prying eyes.

Few things are granted access,

But for one reason:

…I don’t want to get hurt.

So beating heart, carry me away.

Pump my blood through blue veins,

Color my bruises.

Let me live, so that I can expose my heart,

Bare for all to see, open and weak.


The End

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