Their Hearts on Their Sleeves
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I look at them, their hearts on their sleeves.
Unabashed, unashamed, they stare at each other
Their eyes, so fierce, so knowing
Their touches, so confident, so sure
And their hearts, their hearts on their sleeves.
So free, so showing, so strong in that feeling they were feeling
Feeling so much, they'd cry or laugh
Feeling so much, they'd scream or whisper.
And their hearts, their hearts on their sleeves.
They were brazen, blatant, and downright shameless
And with that, came power; the power of passion
Okay... I'll say it. I'm jealous of them
and their hearts, their hearts on their sleeves
I wonder how that feels, how anything really feels...
To have some sensation, to have that love
To have that passion, to have a desire
And to have my heart, my heart on my sleeve
But I'm apathetic and unclear; ambigious and weak
I have no strong opinions to share
And grasp at fleeting objects of fantasy and happiness
But their hearts, their hearts on their sleeves
The only thing I may yearn for
Is the capacity to yearn for something so much...
To have some reason, any reason
To wear my heart, my heart on my sleeve
I want to feel something deep in my bones
I want to want something so much I'd beg
I want to hate something I'd cry and plead
I want to be able to wear my heart on my sleeve.
Is it exciting? To have some dedication to something?
It looks so intense, so hard, and even frightening.
For everyone to know, for everyone to see
How my heart would really look if it was on my sleeve.