Against the throws of war
I am the defender of my heart.
Poisoned arrows with sharpened tips
soar with accusations dripping down their silvery lips
ready to puncture my every pride.
But I am the defender of my heart.
When lovers complete the idea of me
with incomplete ideas of me,
a hollow shell of my actuality
is animated
and mocks me like a cartooned parody.
I am the defender.
A patient heart is a determined heart,
not waiting, but patient.
Indeed wading, patiently, through thick
and sticky scores of sluts, tramps,
and hooligans, all waiting with bows and arrows in hand.
Here I stand, the shield, the man,
the only defender of my heart.
The blade sheathed in me is sharp and quiet,
can reduce a loose tongue to a
removed one, and will pierce the ears of
any fortunate enough to hear what truth I speak,
or stab, for my blade runs deep.
And it must. Because in me, my soul has trust.
I seek within, beyond the moths and rust,
between the unsettled dust,
beneath the copper crust.
I am the defender.
When chicks play games and lick the names
of the many men they've fucked and bent,
I write the boards and bar my chords
pressing ink to page while burning sage.
Needless to say, the nights are solitary
in my home.
I thrive by candle light,
fire helps me write,
the flame insist that much burns inside of me.
The pain, the shame, the
misery, all melt off like calories.
I exercise the defender in my heart.
I have friends in many places, some wear
two, three, four, and five faces.
Some are copy cats and rely on traces
to shape their lives and like glass blown vases
are full of hot air.
Speak your peace or let your words rest peacefully,
because only deeds can be
resurrected successfully,
and the groundsman gave the keys to me,
I run the graveyard shift in to the early morning.
Would you believe how many thoughts are buried in this cemetery?
Six feet beneath actions, respectfully.
Where is the love you ask?
Well where do I start? Begin where it ends.
I am the defender of my heart.
