My Heart


My heart.My easily wounded and sensitive heart.With a string attached, floating like a balloon in the gentle breeze.My heart.Is done.Done being whipped and thrashed in the brutal vicious wind.The wind that forms tornado's.The wind that knocks over tree's, like giants.My heart. Is ready. Ready to wait.Wait for someone to grab it.Grab it carefully by the string.The string however, is not my heart.For the string holds thorns.Thorns that will test and bruise the holder, to see if they will let go, and they will.Time in and time out.My heart.Will be patient.For if it isn't, there is no hope. It'll be patient till it no longer needs to be.My heart.Is beating.Beating like an overused drum.How long can it beat?How long can it last?My heart.Will find the day.The day someone grabs it carefully by the string.But this time.This one time..He'll hold on.He will hold on tightly till he slowly, but surely makes his way up the string and to that heart. And when he finally does.Instead of breaking that careful heart,he will cherish it until it stops beating.That heart then, will no longer need be patient. 


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