Innocence vs. Experience

I have so much heart in me
it possesses my all,
a chest conquered by such a small bundle
of pulsing muscle mass
It twines through an otherwise sterile cavity
spreading such thin tunnels of life
leeching away the dusty walls
one, two, three beats at a time,
breaking down the shelves to improve
the acoustics. Echoes never rang truer,
moving up and out the ivory gates
past dark woven tapestries of lashes
into space,
interminable, vast, goddamn uncaring
“who gives a fuck?” space
moving up and out only to be dissipated
by the sheer opportunity for freedom,
to be countered by the real lack of
attention, to be denied another trip
sky-high.
that poor muscled emotion never had a chance
to breathe outside its walls,
smothered in words, by flicks,
aching sob-stories and the underdogs of the universe
who left nightmares on the eyelids
but shoved conventions through the doorhandle,
left culture leaning heavy
waiting to collapse in and down
mildly crushing the escape,
burying the flight, choking on dirt
When all that quarter of my cavity wanted
was a little more room to move
maybe another piece of mind willing
to slow-dance for the comfort,
not because of love or politics or any of that bullshit
but just to feel another piece of tender,
to gain some affirmation that
Yes, Goddamn it, Yes
there are hearts in this open space
and they are on some strange level
feeling you, and dancing too with the idea
that innocence hurts, but
experience hurts more.