• What a sad thing for me to wish, said a pitiful soul to himself one day...





    I wish I had never had a heart at all.

    Even if it may not be in my chest

    it still beats somewhere in the sand (so small)

    and its being eaten out. Never laid to rest...

    Dug up with a blunt spoon...

    constantly being bruised, full of sorrow...

    hurt, and cannot ever possibly heal soon...

    bludgeoned and shunned, with little hope of filling an empty tomorrow.



    Why do I have such dismal thoughts? Said the soul one hour...





    Why is my empty hole despondent,

    at times, with potential grief?

    Over things that never were...aren't

    and never could be?



    Why am I so troubled and troublesome? Said the soul to himself, one minute into the next...



    So somber and morbid, mulling over things that cannot be changed...

    but perhaps overlooked,

    and for happiness, exchanged...