I am a girl who cannot draw hearts.
While other girls ink hearts and names
On their paper, inside their binders,
I am scribing down lyrics
Trying to unstick the song in my head;
Or jotting down stanzas and rhymes
For whatever inspiration I have.


I say that I don't draw hearts
Because they're such an old clich',
And we all agree that they are;
That they're never in my sketches
Because they're meaning is too shallow,
And that's the truth some of the time;
But the real reason is my incapability.


Any hearts originating from my pencil
Or flowing from the ink in my pen
Begin their life with fluidity:
The first half is always even and perfect
But they grow and manifest lopsided.
The movement to make the second half
Is never smooth or precisely controlled.


The result is something misshapen,
Something undeserving of names
Or proclamations of love.
Rapidly, I erase the deformed thing
And resign myself again to words.
Because I know that my words mean more
Than any heart on a paper or in a binder.