Open Books

Broken hearts,
they hurt like hell.
But afterwards,
I always think they're worth it.

They open up my tattered soul,
like an empty book,
and they write whole novels within me.

I've got a whole series I'd be willing to lend to you.
You can read my broken hearts off to me like broken songs,
Mating calls to a plethera of lonely girls,
searching for a Prince Charming.

I'm not a boy,
and I'm sure as hell not a prince,
but you can bet your sweet ass
that I'm pretty damn charming.

Or at least, I try to be.
Sometimes a rage takes over
taunted by the extremities of my bad luck
and I rip my heart from the hands of the girl holding it.

Sometimes I turn.. red, not green.
I turn red from holding my breath in
waiting for my Irish ancestors just to pass me some luck,
"Don't you think I've waiting long enough yet?!"

I also sometimes turn red from anger,
I scream to the heavens, or more like the ground
cursing my German ancestors for bringing me bad Karma,
"Why'd you have to do that to those innocent people?!"

I cry to myself so much it turns my face red,
from choking on spit and fighting back my sobs.
Why couldn't I channel my Indian overlookers for peace.
All I can say to them is, "I'm so sorry."
All of this is printed in Times New Roman
Point 10, in my tattered soul.
Because point 12 just wouldn't fit.