By Robert Johansson


The heart is a mean machine.

It runs on unrequited love, 

pretense, and noradrenaline.


Preoccupied with past tense,

it calls you up to say there may

still be another one last chance.


The heart doesn’t give a fuck.

It just writes a misspelled

list of demands and slides it

beneath your bedroom door:


One milion text messages!

Delievered at middnight.

Tell nobody!!


The heart knows no fear,

no consequences, no surrender.

All it knows is what it cannot have.