This poem has already started and ended.
Started again and ended the exact same way.
And right now this poem starts again.
I'm not the first to write this poem.
This poem is never intended to be written.
Yet everyone writes it.
This poem is Heartbreak.
It has made history.
Making great gladiators cry in misery.
The greatest minds of all time can't understand this poem's mystery.
It makes the darkest part of the shadow look shimmery.
It helps the uneducated man understand Chemistry.
Gives every poet the smoothest delivery.
Physically, this poem's identity is invisibility.
While having the greatest density,
Weighing down on serenity.
Crushing us with the intensity of its obscenity.
It's raw, ruthless, morbid.
Horrid stories told around flickering flames
Can't burn your soul with fear like its name.
Heartbreak is a psychological disease.
It's your mind poisoning your bloodstream
Until pain teaches you not to make another emotion.
Muscles become weaker than seven days of fasting.
Everlasting guilt trips to foreign destinations of your soul.
Heartbeats have never been in your control.
But now you understand the S.O.S. signals Heart has been sending you.
Heart was beating faster not because love was the one true,
But because Heart was trying to keep love from rear-ending you.
Now you're in a wreck, look at the position love has bent you to.
You blame Heart cause you didn't understand the signals it was sending you.
Until you look back at the carnage and broken pieces laying on the street
Like a mosaic that breaks your spirit with every crack you see.
A picture's worth a thousand words, but not this one.
You have no words, just misunderstood emotions.
You feel like ballerina dancers floating in swamp gas:
Trying so hard to breathe and keep tempo, while this song lasts.
This song we call love.
The song is over and what do we have to show?
After the beat stops and they play the final note?
We have heartbreak.
We have a poem:
A masterpiece built from the scraps.