My heart is heavy.
Things kept bottled, a silent killer.
Nobody perceives my discomfort.
I will die with an overloaded heart.
I have been young and now I’m old.
I still anticipate the day where pride will collapse, hopefully then the heart will be pressured to combust.
Things kept inside waste away like bread crumbs.
How long will we wait?
Can we wait?
Can we never wait?
Will we die away?
I fear if the time doesn’t rapidly approach, one will surely go with the wind.
However, if I do I sense an immense expanse of agony ahead.
Most times I see you whispering to words that may entice my heart towards yours.
But sometimes, I sit and ponder about long walks on the beach and plans imagined.
Is this a fantasy?
Surely, if I do not open up, I will shrivel like dead flowers.