I Write Poetry

The boy with a crochet heart,
Made of yarns and threads and strings,
A tangled mass inside of his chest,
Hooks protrude from his back like wings,

He takes the lies once given him,
Like razors he cuts his skin through,
Carving out their "I Love you",
Trying desperately to make them true,

His tears pour like rainfall,
Sprinkle and spatter on the ground,
Just enough to water the flowers,
Yet not enough to make him drown,

He wandered lost and unseen,
Wishing only for love's egress,
Yet feared it could not be so,
For all he was,
was a broken knotted mess.