An Octopus has 3 hearts.

An octopus has 3 hearts. Me too: One heart carefully crafted completely out of poems; With meter-made-metaphors and a beat that opens doors to my self-made, and doubt-paved home. It has windows of motivation as clear as a page before my writer's rage makes it mine. An octopus has 3 hearts, and so do I. With triangle veins that tangle and complain like there's something else to prove; I have half-a-heart stained with paint and pain, and eraser residue, from you, in its grooves. I have half-a-heart that grew from the trees; Covered in finger-print memories, and you can read all of my tragedies on the leaves. An octopus has 3 hearts, and there are 3 hearts in me. I have one for writing, one for art, and the one I'll keep fighting before it falls apart any faster than you could blink or doubt it. But here's the way that I think about it: An octopus has 3 hearts and 8 legs. 3 chances to love, and 8 to run away. 2 enhancers to pump the blood, and one to keep the rhythm the same; To stop it from fading or rearranging, and to keep the other 2 from changing. But in my mind, I keep some things locked away, and those things are things I'd like to say; Like the other day when I was told that I have 206-or-so bones in my body. And that I've grown from everything that you've taught me, and that even if my writing stays unknown, Well, it's never gonna stop me. Because I have the motivation and the heart to make it to the top-seat. Because if an octopus has 3 hearts, and 8 legs just to maintain its sense of balance, then why is it so hard for us to say that with the one heart that beats within us every day, That we, too, will accept the challenge? May 16, 2013