I spill blood out of my seething heart,
And show you the severed strings left of the veins.
Mocked, I am.
The spill is that of spilled milk
as you laugh at the pitiful pile of blue, red, passion.
I explain the jagged capacity
of my mind.
Yet, it is too much for the capacity
of your shallow ears.
The soul of my vessel is weary
of looking at my derided empathy.
I follow the thumps
Of my heart,
Not the aches
Of my head.
Author’s Note:
When your love is seeping with passion, yet it is not being understood, and rather being brushed off as insignificant.
B.K. | 16 | Virgina, USA | @bray.kislek on Instagram
