I'm committed.
fitted.
Into place.
In a race.
That can never be won.
No matter how fast I run.
When I listen to songs that are sung.
About love.
But I can't find it.
So I try to hide it.
My own feelings.
Like apple peelings.
They are discarded.
And leave behind, easily wounded flesh.
And my heart,is in a mess.
Cut,bruised. Battered and abused.
Stitched roughly together.
and never, will, never beat properly again.
-H
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