Staring at these four walls.
I swear they talk to me too.
Taking shapes of their own,
Telling me what to do.

A chilly air inside this room,
Marks my heart's dead beat.
A miracle that the shallow thing,
Can manage such a feat.

Torn up and tossed around,
I bandage it with care.
But no matter how much I nurse,
It always seems to tear.

My heart's a fragile thing,
Once shattered and twice shot.
The past still vivid in it's memory.
The days when it cared a lot.

Avoiding all close contact,
To whatever again may hurt.
The little organ of life,
Beats faintly under this shirt.

It acts of it's own accord.
So I just sit and talk to the walls.
And as they close in to suffocate me,
Nobody hears my dying calls.