Take my bleeding heart and crush it
Crush it till it bleeds no more
All the love you failed to give
Now that love it needs no more
My Bleeding Heart
Take my bleeding heart and crush it
Crush it till it bleeds no more
All the love you failed to give
Now that love it needs no more
Frank Solanki 
I enjoyed reading your poem, thank you.
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Welcome.
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Amazing 🙂
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Thanks
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The love she failed, to give,
Is the love you need, to live?
Or not, cause you need no more,
That dove, that is out to lure.
But doves, have an empty heart,
It doesn’t bleed, even with a dart.
I know my friend, I’ve seen them close,
It’s a drug, I’ve had my dose.
Why would you oh, wish and empty room?
Or live, this treacherous gloom?
Or crush a heart, that bleeds with love?
Or wish a dove, that flies above?
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I get the sign, oh friend of mine,
I hope the dove, is all benign.
I hope she does, read this though
For your bleeding heart, has an afterglow.
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Wonder
Do you ever wonder how
It can hurt to breathe
Or wonder if your heart
Will continue to beat
There have been nights
I could hardly believe
When the sun rose
To shine on my face tenderly
Sometimes the the rain is quick
To fall to the ground
And then I wonder how it is
That I did not drown
Where sadness sits
So heavily upon my chest
As I seem to struggle for
Every single breath
How can the hope you have
Become so hopeless
When do your dreams
Disappear into the darkness
How is it so much easier
To let tears fall endlessly
Then it is to find the laughter
Hidden deep within me
I know one day that I will
Understand this mystery
God will share the answers
When we finally meet
For now I will remember
If I stumble and fall down
I know that I am never lost
With God I am found.
Katherine Spitzer
2014
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Poignant ❤️👌
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Rain falls into my open mouth,
mixed with tears, hot and salty.
Storm darkened skies
slide shadows, into my soul
where starlight pulsed.
And cried your name, in pleasure.
Now in agony.
Wait, this is Tuesday.
There’s no mourning on Tuesdays.
Wake the fuck up, Frank!
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It’s Wednesday in this part of the world. There are mournings on Wednesdays here.
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Pomegranate freshly pressed, decant worded fears into my cup.
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