The Muscle

When we run, what do we have to show for it?

When we're nervous, no one will know of it

When we draw it, we obscure it

And defile and hurt it

It's ill-conceived to put 

The word love, with the word hurt

Yet why, when we cry

Or lose love, a piece dies?

Myocyte is the thing

In which the muscle brings

It's bulk of life to us it sings

We say we'd never jar it

But yet over and over we'll scar it

Never to be the same

Still we love, though we know

That if our hearts never grow

We can find someone too

Who broke their heart like you

 

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