Hearts

Can you break a heart?
You can break a heart, shatter it, scatter it like a work of art.
You can rip it up, shred it to pieces, pound it into dust,
but is this really just?
Can hearts speak?
Hearts, don't speak, but they feel, can make us weak.
We transmit these feelings into thoughts,
and things we ought naught.
Hearts can be tortured.
Can be stolen.
Injured.
Torn.

But why do we live day after wretched day just to know that we're going to be sad again?
We keep going on, living, despite all the pain.
We're used to carrying on,
to never feel like we've won.
We fumble with the slightest things, feeling queasy,
because the world's just not easy.
If it was, then we'd all be soaring,
and the crowd below would be roaring.

Somewhere deep inside, we know that' we're beautiful, but we don't see it.
Because people drive you down to push themselves up, bit by bit.
Because the dead don't rise,
so open up your eyes.
This world doesn't have much to offer,
so try to do more than your forefathers.
Because life is hard,
no matter what you're called, be it "Fag" or "Spaz" or "Tub of lard."

You've just had one of those days,
feeling like nothing but an old bloodstain.
Feeling nothing but old pains,
and you don't want to even breathe again.
Think the world'd be better without you,
but honey,
there ain't no you better than you.

We've all been treated like shit,
in a game of "Point out the Loser", we've all been It.
So put down that gun,
step down from the ledge,
untie the noose,
and for a moment, just hang loose.

All we've ever been is imperfectly perfect beings,
beings of pain and love and hate and sorrow,
nothing we'll ever need to borrow.
So just keep walking that tightrope,
Look at the bads and just say "Nope."

You're a beautiful soul,
and it isn't as black as coal.
So pick yourself off the floor,
get up, walk out that door,
and live your life,
and don't let anybody give you strife.
We lost ourselves in the beating of our hearts,
and forgot that we all were works of art.