A broken record plays
behind the bookshelf of my mind.
"Don't do it. Don't do it."
But its muffled verses
are drowned by the echo of my thoughts,
still unblossomed but loud.
DUH-DUM, DUH-DUM.
My heartbeat is another echo,
And these two
harmonize and sound so
right,
somehow.
And when I follow the rapturous melody
to its bittersweet conclusion,
I am left with nothing
but the quiet echos of remorse
and a broken record
behind a bookshelf.
Was there ever a heartbeat harmony?
Was there ever a heartbeat harmony?
The broken record plays,
and I am forced to hear its verses,
now repeating in my mind
like jaunts.
I jeer and curse it,
wanting secretly a reimbursement
of my too-late clarity.
I immerse myself in self-loathing,
so that is all I hear
in the taunting of the broken record,
the chorus for my mistakes.
I wanted to be right,
but now I'm left again
to listen for another song.
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