Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Two hearts
Equally broken
One hurt by the other
The other torn
By the same one
One stands
Wobbly and tearful
The other
Lies on the floor
Writhing in pain
Red eyes
Are streaming
As cold voices
Struggle
To scream and shout
