Quirk

I'll rip my heart from my chest.
Maybe it's best.
When I feel so depressed.
And I feel like less.
Than nothing.
The way I'm shoving.
My walls up agian.
To heal the pain.
Or conceal the faint.
Heart beet.
Of the wolf that sleeps.
Waiting to burst forth.
With full force.
And take it's course.
Of action.
No longer be a fraction.
But be the whole being of my soul.
Fur ripples in the cold.
Wind which blows.
The snow.
Over my toes.
Shed the skin.
The one that I'm in.
No longer so thin.
Now my muscle's growing.
And I don't mean the ones, that you flex on your arms.
I mean my heart.
It's fibre now tough.
Even it's beet's rough.