Even hearts of gold have regrets before death.
Because that’s what I have – a heart of gold.
But lately, this heart’s been numb as the rest.
But lately, this heart has been getting old.
But I press on and on and on and on.
On and on and on but not getting done.
Will I stop when my heart gets cold and numb?
Or will I just press on and on and on?
Like a blind fire,
my rage burns on and burns on
and it’s more and more.
And the fire gets more and more and more,
But my eyes always stay sealed, shut tight.
It gets more but doesn’t feel real.
And I’ll break your heart of glass,
break this heart of glass.
Don’t let it happen to you, too.
© Joey Blue and thepoetryaboutus.com/writingwithstrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.