Nothing but blood has pumped through this heart, since I don't know when, I forget how that would even feel.
The holes that were torn inside were too big to be stitched closed.
It's a second hand heart.
It's tattered, been shattered. It's hurt and it's confused.
It's a heart so empty, wasted into a skeleton of who it used to be.
Hanging on so long, barley beating.
Waiting on a kick start, or maybe an electric spark.
The odd P's, missing T's. It always used to trace with ease.
I need to defibrillate it, to regulate it.
But beneath the shadows, I have faith there's a rhythmic beat. Patiently it waits for another to fall in sync.
Time for this heart to start to pace again, allow the fleshy parts to grow back again.
It's a second hand heart. It's well worn in.
It's scarred, always on guard.
My second hand heart, had alot to lose, yet now has nothing left to prove.
It might be bashed up, beaten and broken. It's been bandaged and stitched closed at the seams. But it's still a heart, that shines, it's light beams.
How peculiar does it seem. Could it really be.
Is there someone out there that could love, a second hand heart like me.
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