The Seat of Heart
My heart torn to shreds by you,
my hero in my mind,
the one who saved me,
you mean beast in reality,
here to torment my very exsistance,
still reaching out and crying,
feeling this beast soul, or troll?
Does God know his children would suffer so,
curse him and everything here,
emotions boiling over, can't stop.
Where is this angel I feel in my heart?
Is this abstract art,
only in the eye of the beholder,
illusion only to the artist,
Or is there a universal truth to the artist strokes?
Strokes of paint that turn to tears with one thought of not so innocent fears.
Where is my angel I pray,
This masked feeling of my soul?
Abstract is only for the artist to see,
everyone else does not see. Love is an abstract
emotion not meant to see,
its an illusion of the heart deep within so torn apart.
Far apart is where the wounded must stay,
not fit for society.
Bleeding hearts cannot show their ugly face,
for no one will believe the torment when we sleep,
if we must shed our skin do it quietly,
for no one will hear. For as we see,
that is the way it should be.
To Thee
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