Going to the doctors to see what's wrong with me. They take a peek. |
Spill My Guts Let's say that I go to the hospital And insist that the doctors fix me And they agree, seeing something in my eyes That reflects something more serious within Upon opening my weak, fragile body Doctors would find a peculiar sight indeed; Rather than a smooth, strong system Working in harmony, everything in it's own place Acting as it should They would find--to put it simply--chaos Confusion The nervous system was on high alert at all times But still susceptible to surprise The digestive system was fickle At some times wanting it all and more (as a matter of pride, more than anything) And at others not wanting much at all (as a means to enlightenment, more than anything) But strangest of all would be the heart. Only half-full, but half-full of longing In want of many things In want of adventure, a clear-cut quest To give purpose and meaning to the life that heart gives It swells, just a bit, Beats faster, just a bit But deflates again, punctured by reality Back to it's slow, monotonous process In want of strength, mental and physical Strength to know truth Strength to protect Strength to understand Strength to be more. The heart beats faster, swells a bit more Takes on a hefty weight But deflates again, overburdened By the weight it tries to carry Most of all though There is a bittersweet longing One that the heart both welcomed and coldly rejected. It is a longing, dare I say, for love. The heart is in want of love. The heart cries The heart screams The heart laughs The heart bleeds All this time it suffered Alone, as it wanted But it also wanted to reach out. And love. But continuously, as though it were a necessary cycle The timid hand reachs out and recedes Never making it very far in the first place. Yes, the heart is in want of love. Just like any other heart, I'm sure. The doctors, uncomfortable and unsure Would stitch me back up And send me on my way There really wasn't much hope of fixing anything, anyways. |