My Poor Heart

I give up,
I’m sick of your games,
You used to have my heart,
In the palms of your hands,
But you squeezed it too hard.

My poor heart,
Is mushed between your fingers,
The ache is all that lingers,
You always told me,
Till death do us part.

Now you’ve moved on,
You’re in her bed,
But you’ll be hone by dawn,
You’re just messing with my head.

My poor heart,
Is mushed between your fingers,
The ache is all that lingers,
You always told me,
Till death do us part.

I’m moving on now,
Someone special,
Has the broken mushed pieces,
He’s slowing piecing it back together.

My poor heart,
Is mushed between your fingers,
The ache is all that lingers,
You always told me,
Till death do us part.

The blood will always remain,
In your hands,
Sure I have no name,
But you’ll go down with no game.

My poor heart,
Is mushed between your fingers,
The ache is all that lingers,
You always told me,
Till death do us part.

© Becky Baillargeon 2010