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.