I call it murder,
Murder of the heart.
Although nobody heard it,
It died right from the start.
With every joke, sneer, and hurtful laugh,
The heart just seems to crumple and sink.
And not one person knows the half,
Of how the heart runs out of ink.
Funerals are always depressing,
But when it's the heart that has died in you,
No ones seems to notice it's missing,
Until the person has died, it's true.
So don't be so alarmed,
If you know your heart still has its beat.
But please don't let anothers be harmed,
Because yours will be the next one to takes its seat.
