The Book Of My Heart

THE BOOK OF MY HEART 

The book of my heart,
Is loose-leafed.
The pages fall out,
Scatter like rain,
Illegal like cocaine,
Yet buzzy when you’re down.
Miss it, when it’s not around.

The book of my heart,
Is in a foreign tongue,
And doesn’t always make sense.
It spits when it’s hurt,
Face down in the dirt,
Doesn’t see wood, just trees,
But all gnarled,
And crooked with dis-Ease.

The book of my heart,
Waffles a lot.
But never says what it means.
Too afraid to say,
Always walks away,
A bit too mixed up and verbose.
Paranoid overdose.

The book of my heart,
Is never read.
Always goes back on the shelf,
Dostoevsky of my soul,
Too big, for a pigeonhole.
Thinks always the worst,
Hides that fear, in verse.

The book of my heart,
Is yours to dissect.
Naked and uncensored,
Fragile and weak,
Nonconformist, oblique.
Shakespeare on speed,
But worth a read.