by Santa Lucia
I am a little girl
with a collection of broken hearts
two hearts arrive once a week.
Caring for them my job is,
help ‘em grow and mature, but they
behave in such a disastrous way.
Teaching ‘em so, what a difficult
hearts have no eyes to see where there at.
They bounce around carelessly
killing themselves squashing little hearts as they fall.
Without brains to think, most of them
make it not, ‘till end of day.
But I’m proud to say I preserve eighty
some have been with me long before.
The quiet ones I adore, taking their time
rolling around at play.
Some people call it maturity and ask me
How’d I get ‘em to be this way?
The truth in fact, they were always, like that.
All hearts look the same, good hearts just
remain, bad hearts never bleed, just break.