My heart wishes it had hands of its own
to write out the things my brain
overthinks before allowing the ideas
to hit the page.
Which is funny because I remember
at one point I hated computers
because they ate my thoughts
in a way that was so much more cruel
than the alcoholic's behavior of
the page towards the ink
coursing through my veins.
So I suppose I understand how
she feels being there, all trapped
feeling things that cannot be described,
beating to a tune that has not yet
been recorded or played.
My heart has so much to say
and voice to express it.
Maybe, just maybe, if you
hold me close enough,
you'll be able to pick out
the messages through morse code
or patterns in the beating.
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