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My Heart

The one person you want to read your stories And ponder upon your fury ,doesn't even know you exist. Why do I dive face first into the social swimming pool only too look like a fool. The stories I tell my heart Is draining like a well. You wouldn't care if I fell, fell face first into the antisocial well. I could tell someone about my sorrow only for them to feel borrowed. A borrowed heart is something earned not bought. For I lay here in misery with my broken heart.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2018




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