One of them

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In this world of hearts, I've found none intact.
Merely broken with tainted souls, trying to repair a love about to end.
Or one that never began.
Leaving some to wonder,
If maybe somewhere,
Is a potential love or friend.
And as a heart rises, another sighs,
As it watches a romance
pass them by,
Keeping their true feelings left unheard.
As they lose their chance
At a love that could've occurred
If only they'd said those three little words.

I could write novels about hearts beyond repair,
I could write more about the pain these foolish lovers bear.
Love has become pedantic; just look at the lives that fell apart.
Thankfully I will never be,
One of them.

Yet for some odd reason,
This misery won't end.
The little pains I ignore
All add up 'til they're bloodstains on my bedroom floor.
Or scratches on my looking glass.
Delving inside,
past my image of disinterest and into emotions that I hide.
Emotions that just won't pass,
Like the cold loneliness that occurs
Like an unknown unstoppable disease without a cure.

And so I write about hearts beyond repair
And I still write no matter how hard I try not to care.
As I look around at all of the lies that fell apart.
And somehow I wonder if I
Am one of them'

And I'll write more, for that's the only way I'll care.
And I'll write more to make this pain easier to bear.
And I'll look around at all of the lives that are intact.
And maybe if you were with me,
Somehow, someday, I would be
One of them.





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