breaths can hurt

A rhythm forms on the tip of my tongue

(my fingers willingly oblige and dance upon the
keyboard)

I speak of the beauty that I'm supposed to see and I
stumble-trip

over

ideas that don't sound quite-up-to-par

(with the-best-that-I-can-be mantra I've carved
into myself...)

The rhythm works itself out in ways I cannot imagine

(fonts become colors and lines become

tricks)

I love him, I love him, I love him, I love
him, I love him, I love him, I love him, this time....

(I cannot stop breathing the beautiful rhythm of my broken

soul.....)

.breatheinsoftly.