sometimes i need to rip out my heart
so i can know that it’s still there;
that it still beats hot in my dead hand
telling me that there is life left yet
to be wrung like ink from a cloth
into the deskside jar
that i stab with my pen
sometimes i need to rip out my heart
so i can know that it’s still there;
that it still beats hot in my dead hand
telling me that there is life left yet
to be wrung like ink from a cloth
into the deskside jar
that i stab with my pen