Your heart controls your life.
If it's not beating, you're not breathing,
You're not moving, you're not feeling.
You're not taking in the elements of the earth
that you were made to ingest.

Without your heart,
nothing is possible.
Not a hope or desire can be obtained.
You need your heart to dance, to sing,
to love.

The heart is a fragile glass vase.
The holder of all different kinds of beauty
like daisies, marigolds, carnations.
But the very moment it shatters,
The beauty becomes morality.

As your heart lies in distress
pumping vigorously, forcefully,
the beauty inside begins to deteriorate,
the first crack.

The hurt you feel, a punch in the gut,
a breath of air mercilessly knocked out of your precious lungs,
a smack of pavement in the face when misery knocks you down.

The love that once kept you in a tender embrace
now leaves you shivering without cover,
without home,
without comfort.

The therapy you came crawling back to
in need of a listener, a companion,
now deserts you in your most troublesome hours,
when all you really wish for is a vent for your agony.

That home... What home?
What home if your heart is not protected
from the evil in this imperfect world
that makes you feel more minuscule than a speck of dust?

In this moment the bars that once kept your heart safe,
now carved into, broken, bent.
Bent until the glass heart can be reached by whomever wishes to reach it.
Whomever wishes to shatter the beauty that lies within.

But this beauty,
this unique beauty inside each and every cavern within you,
and every other around you
is never permanently gone.

Each time the beauty dies,
it rises from it's ashes like a phoenix,
each time, stronger than before,
better than before.

The dust from your shards,
picked up piece by piece until
they beat as one again.

And all the hurt you felt in that moment,
now swept away with your flood of tears,
and your flood brings a field of flowers
like daisies, marigolds, carnations,
all grown fuller and taller than before.

They tower over the bloody shards
you left behind in the dirt,
because you knew not to take them with you.
You knew they weren't worth your love.