Living heart.

My heart plays game with me,
it comes and goes as it please.
There's sunshine, there's rain,
It longs to stay in the cave.
It never grew up is what I believe,
choked with blood of self-pity.
Brain tries to manage the scene,
"Whatever happened!" it exclaims.
The beats long to go flat & fly.
It whispers tales of the deep.
It says life is just a trick
distorted image between blinks.
There's a game with no name.
In our heart we all play.
It's there from beginning to end,
better hide before it awakes.

Who could that be?

Who could that be?
Solid and warm to the touch,
as natural as it was,
as familiar as a dream?

Who maintains these heartbeats?
When a message is received,
the flesh that withholds
the clues that can't be told?

Who would that be?
An afternoon fantasy?
A phantom made out of light
sifting through the leaves?

Could that be me?

Who cares.

I think I've been wrong,
mistaken being weak with strong.
All the judgements & indignations,
yet taken no actions.
There's the sense of loss,
plus the rage & escapes.
But why am I still here?
Just to stand around?
Maybe I will be happy, by chance,
to help someone, anyone.
It's always been an excuse,
that "I felt deeply, & cared too much."