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Heart Pumps Ink
Heart Pumps Ink
1 min
158
My heart is not a beating mass of meat inside
It’s not which pumps blood, keeping me alive
My heart isn’t made of silver or gold
No, my heart is formed when I pick the pen; honest words are told
Like a river, the ink inside my pen flows
A rushing and gushing tsunami; as I spill out my soul
My heart isn’t right or wrong
But when honest words are said onto paper,
At least I can be very clear
My heart is not the beating mass of meat inside
My heart is the ink; the words that dance on the sheets
Following a rhythm more stable than my own heartbeat
And whenever it smudges, I write the words again
For I am always clear, on what my heart wants out of me
