"Write with your heart!"
They all chime, like church bells
Off-key
And
Out of sync.

But my heart is bloodied up-torn-ground up,
From the last venture it undertook so valiantly.
Am I to write with its blood?
Need I collect the so-precious ink
Of a hero's last escapade?

By writing as such, I would have to rip the wounds open,
And of what use?
There's no suffering like the one you bring upon yourself.
First, from injury of unrequited love,
And then from nourishing the possibility of hope.

I croon in agony to the blood-spilt ground
To salvage what was left in the mess.
But finding the last vestiges unfit for any other use,
I wrote a poem
With all the little pieces.

But what remains?
I have a poem written with my heart,
But no such instrument of reference.
A shell--all a poet must be,
Sacrificing himself for his beloved.