To this my letter to the muses, o those who sing so lovely under the sea and above the clouds. Where do I cast my falling heart? Upon the smooth pavement in which all shall see but walk by, or to the jagged rocks on which many cast their despair...
To this my letter to Venus, to where shall I cast my utter desire to retrieve some form of love. Whether it is in the past or in the oncoming present. I long for a seldom peace with one whom I adore more than myself. Till when or from where shall I be in serenity...
Ever so gently shedding tears from ancient disappointments, and forcing smiles onto ill commended failures. My heart can no longer take such pain, I scream with sealed lips and a pierced tongue, cursing no one but my omitted fate, sounding as a repeat in skit, yelling "Down With Love!", yet not believing a word of those lines myself.
Resisting tears and letting go of each scarred line upon my heart. Wanting to find one who will heal all, and in so, I can release all. To this my letter to Cupid, shooting arrows of which do not miss it's target, but have missed my heart. I do not blame you, only the arrows of fate, that I most only dream of a romance such as that of the two lovers.
To this a letter to myself, To he who has finally stop chasing, and now forever waiting, though the tears do fall, do not forget a single drop.
For this is the letter of My Heart...
