Heart

It's as though a heart has undefined seasons of change
Warming up or becoming cold with disregard for what time of the year it is
But before it deteriorates because of others disregard, I try to record whats left inside
Because if the heart is the muscle of life
Then pain and love are the two drum sticks that play together to keep it beating
And if the pad is my body then the pen is my breath, and when I click it I exhale and let it
breathe till nothings left.
And if that ink is my blood, I'll let it run in poetic patterns that flow with words that will prosper until my death.
And if poetry is art
Let me use it to paint literary mosaics that will resignate in the minds as beautifully as Picasso paintings
And if i have no choice than to let words paint picture
let this be heaven sent like scripture
with good intent and content that invigorates minds
IWrItE