Can easily be ripped, torn, shattered blamelessly,
In the mist covered, withheld, never changing at the sound of vile words,
So perverse all fluids come to a remote end,
From the very one who promised to care no matter what,
There it’s left without a will,

Striking, demanding, complaining,
Worn-out from endless intrusions, but wouldn’t dare to re-frame,
Holding on fragilely to that smothered note known as hope,
Hoping that things would somehow vanish,
Counting the many thoughts with silent whispers,

Feeling no compassion, disowned, unwanted,
Vital pausing could become more frequent,
Causing complications throughout and within,
There it’s marked shapeless seeking any second chances,
Time becomes somewhat picky to how it should be presented,

Taking only the positive and casting the negative,
Waiting patiently, searching, and trying to find a path,
To get to where it’s bestrode is hailed,
Longing but the folds, bumps, pain,
Seems arrogantly over spoken,
Out shadowed by its own self worth,
Constantly dragging weighed presumptions,
One by one it regains every lost beat as though they never disappeared,
Keeping those creased places as an unforgettable sign,
That honest Paper Heart