There is an organ inside of my chest,
it's pulsing day and night with a simple little beat.
Whenever I see you, or know that you're near,
it speeds up and quickens it's usually slow pace.
As you can tell, this is forign to me.
I've never experienced this before.
But because I am joyous when you are around,
I would love to see you forever more.
That same organ is acting very strange;
it contracts and aches when she speaks of you.
A bitter emotion fills this organ instead of blood,
and I resent myself for feeling as I do.
You are not hers, and you are not mine,
for you are not an object to be had,
but if you said that you would be mine,
that would make me very glad.
This poem is simple, but the mind behind it is not,
for emotions so complex are not for the weak.
I am writing this to you because I can write,
and am not the one to physically speak.
I never thought that this day would come,
soft and sweet like a dove.
But now I know what has happened to me;
I have fallen in love. (With you, that is.)