The Beating Heart

This is a somewhat long one. Wrote it in the public gardens a few days ago.

Some I’m sure would say,
I lack the fire in my eyes,
The zeal to change my life,
The courage to touch the skies.

Some would say that I,
May have a heart of stone,
That all I’ll ever know,
Is the pain of being alone.

And that, that same heart,
Pumps ice blood through my veins,
That I lack the feeling,
To ever make it change.

To all of those people,
I am forced to tell,
The reasons for my follies,
The purpose of my shell.

I may not show the fire,
But it is always deep inside,
Waiting for the person,
With whom it can confide.

My hardened heart of stone,
Is softer than most know,
It gifts me more control,
Over the emotions that I show.

Blood like ice is simple,
It helps me hide my shame,
For unlike blood, ice water,
Can ceaselessly mask pain.

But it doesn’t really matter,
When I tell them what I’ve found,
With my feet firmly planted,
And my head up in the clouds.

For twenty-one years I’ve lived,
And through that time I’ve learned,
To listen to your instinct,
For what ones heart may yearn.

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