This Old Heart

Our hearts.....we're so in touch with them; or are we?

I hear my heart beating everyday. I hear it through my ears, I feel it pumping through my veins. I feel it reaffirming itself as it pounds against my chest when I well up in anxiety thinking about all the unknowns in my life. It's like a silent symphony that plays loudly but so often that it gets forgotten... but it is there, ever present, this huge fist that looks like it's covered in blood and meat.

My mind is far too plastered to think about any of this in the conventional manner it usually would....so I am allowing myself to type as I feel and I think without a second look to clarify my thoughts or what they intend to say.

But here I am; just letting my heart beat as I listen to the sound of angelic words that are supposedly empty because apparently words don't speak loud enough. But as I lay here, they are all I have. In my mind, in my thoughts, in my subconscious these words are everything and they are just pouring out of me, flowing so freely, against my own will. Much like my heart which pumps without any direct instruction from me, these words just keep coming..... And with words come memories. Images that need to be painted by only a collection and specific placement of alphabetic symbols.

.....and this old heart. This old heart that has been broken, torn apart, reassembled, shot at, stabbed, ripped out, put back in etcetera, etcetera, this old heart beats another day. And in the name of anything on which I can rest all my hope, I hope that it continues to beat against the wild current that attempts to drown me. Because I need this old heart to live. I need this old heart to spare me another chance at friendship and love, at happiness and lessons, at everything. I need this old heart.