oh messy heart, breathe, but…..

Will those cracks in my heart be loved as it is with dimples?

Will they be looked at and oh they are so cute?

Will the unfinished edges be seen as art?

Will they be admired and oh, this needs only a faint red?

Will the holes be looked through as a beauty in the making?

or will they be touched and oh, I wanna make this whole again?

Will the deep rot in the wound be trashed out as garbage?

Will it be strong scent enough to crash down every other scent and oh, you have been patient enough dear?

Will the grey hair on this heart be seen as just a lie to hide away from the sparkle of young love and dreams?

Will it be seen as tint and oh, where the tint remover at?

Will the plain and untouched rim and soles be painted as new beginning?

Will they be polished and oh, what a beautiful start?

Will the marks be healed or unhealed enough to remind you I have seen the world before?

Will they be soft enough to touch and oh, what a memory so long gone?

Will the chains be rusty and bristle for you to break the bondage?

Will you hold them with a lion’s rage and oh, fly away little bird, the wait is over?

Will the leaking drops be mellifluous enough to remind you of a long lost and abandoned cry?

Will you listen to it and oh, what if I splash color to this sad, blurry black and white voice?

Will the little sound of sobs bring you rest and remind you that happiness is not always through smiles,

and that sometimes a heart will make a quiet shout and that will be the happiest moment in truth of its entire existence?

Will you smile back and laugh enough to the funny bits of laughter and oh, don’t get any louder, let me feel where the hurt is?

Will the beat-skipping of my heart on a Déjà vu be dramatic enough to your senses and make you protect it even more?

Will you see the panic and oh, can we have a replay?

Will you let shame and pain consume it with vigor, or will you loosen the tight grip, endlessly to watch it end. Will you love me enough to let me be whole without breaking more, will my beauty at heart be pure mess enough to grow old with?

The HandPain

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