Writers 
The Dying Heart
The striking of that object,
So shiny I can’t look away,
So magnetic I can’t resist its pull.
The strongest wind that made me fall, helplessly.
The sharpest thing that pierced the heart,
And left it bleeding.
Will it ever come back
To stitch what it tore?
Will it stop the bleeding
And make it beat stronger than before?
Or will it wander away into the arms of another heart?
Leaving this heart to bleed helplessly to death.
Oops.
The heart is still bleeding.
Dying, with no one to help,
No one to ask, "What happened?"
No one to wipe the bloodstains.
The heart is about to die in its pool of blood!
And no one is here to change its position.
I look far away
No one is coming.
The heart is now dull, weak, and wrinkled.
Helpless. Weary.
Shedding endless tears.
Its muscles weak and strained.
Each drop of tear leaves the wound fresher,
With no one to stitch it.
"This is an accident," the heart whispers.
"Everyone falls victim someday."
Not everyone gets hurt,
But some carry scars they will never forget.
Scars that may hinder attraction,
Scars that may destroy dreams,
Scars that may lead to change of identity,
Scars that may lead to change of oneself,
Scars that may kill souls and leave them unburied,
Scars that will lead to self doubt,
Scars that will question every step they take.
Stitching alone isn’t enough.
Now, it searches
For someone who will stitch,
And wash away the blood.
