The Bullshit Beating

The bullshit beating of

a busted blood pumper.

I felt it, bruised,

in my chest, into my belly,

blood hot and fiery.

Backed-up with bile and

bilious flotsam, bursting

through angered veins,

colored green with envy,

distrust and betrayal.

The heart, a carefree monster,

living behind bony bars,

loving and caring without a pause

for the brain to catch up. Diving

into peril, shunning reasonability,

only to be stunned by wretched silence.

The bullshit the heart gets into,

to break itself, to suffer at the whims

of others carelessness, callousness, and

general malaise of how the heart wants

to beat in unison with another.

The throbbing ache of rejection,

disappointment, and shame.

Shame for letting the heart do what

it wants, when the brain knows better.

The brain cursed with the hearts woes.

The brain, bent on being understanding;

we’ve all had issues, truths, lies and we

should not let the burning blood of heart rage

blacken an open mind against one another.

A shield, made of courtesy and manners, and

“I understand, you’ve got issues…”

The heart knows it’s bullshit. It doesn’t

want to understand. It wants what it wants,

untempered by polite society and the rules of

modern morals. It beats, like an angry fist

on the door, demanding the love it was promised.

“Let me in,” the heart shouts.

“I know you’re in there!”

“I’m busted up and I need your help!”

“I’m hot and wet and confused!”

“I’ve given you what I could and here I am, beaten and beating”

The blood pumper, still burning, unanswered,

met with icy silence. So in its cage of bones

it remains, bothering the brain with sleepless

wonderings and constant doubts and hot,

frustrated blood.

I cannot sleep.