there's nothing more cliche than the human heart
she said knowingly
wishing I could show her my true heart
I let her perform my autopsy
there's nothing special in here, just blood and vessels
she said, knowing me
atriums and valves, the machines of betrayal,
myocardial
infarction; oh, but disregard this young old heart
it's full of dead arrowheads
shot from stupid's bow
I have nothing new to report
but whatever direction, way leads to way
and finds itself here again
the arrow points and I'll follow
looking for any pill to swallow
my soul frail and hollow
sucking all the poetry out of her kiss
and her tempered coos of bliss
spelled out on my grave in piss
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