Feelings are a necessary nuisance Meant to tickle nerves running inside. Grotesque, wondrous heart empowers since Without it, I would actually die. A musical organ that beats with blood; Sometimes stuck playing a song about love, Until its final thud. Sound, more soothing than flapping wings of a dove; It pumps more than a gleaming red liquid. Pumps of a forceful impulsive rush Stream through veins diffusing to be languid. Wrongfully harmed, its blood, or feelings, gush. I never could survive without my heart, Whose blood paints me as an original work of art.

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