A heart of glass within a wall of stone;
I offer the sledge hammer freely.
Each stone is regrown from my tears.
So many thoughts, so little time.
But are they worth writing down?
By the time I pick up a pen, they are barely a memory.
Feelings are fleeting, changing like ocean waves.
To write them is futile.
Ideas are nice, but are any of mine original?
I don't believe in beliefs today.
A hopeless romantic,
I fall in love each day.
Alas, I am left heartsick...
and drink the pain away.