Art is the magical act of one bleeding heart healing another.

If you hate me for who I am,
then hate, you should;
but I hate it when I am being,
misunderstood.

I must confess, that my
heart is like a frozen lake,
only pretends to be firm,
to shroud its tearful ache.
So tread over this heart,
as often as you like,
but one of these days,
if it feels your warmth strike;
its cold, thin surface
will abruptly break asunder,
and then it won’t resist
from pulling you deep under.

Keep an eye out for her,
she tends to disappear
intermittently, leaving no
note for one to know,
as to where she is going
and if she'll be showing
up for supper that day,
or in the dark, wander away.
But soon she will map
her way back to your lap
timidly, in need for a warm,
caring body to conform.
She likes to play with things,
but often her mood swings.
To hurt is not her intention,
all she wants is your attention,
and if you give your love to her,
she’ll not smile but perhaps purr.

I don't wish to argue,
whether the glass is
half empty or half full,
as long as what it holds,
is pure and delightful.

When striving through
a pitch-black night,
if you find yourself
marooned and blue,
lift your head high
and take a sight,
of the billion stars
all rooting for you.