A work in progress? - poem

The pen writes,
on my heart,
millions of
unspoken words.

Ink spilling,
ink blotching,
ink bleeding,
over heartstrings,

my heartstrings,
resonate
to the tune,
love and hate.

Then again
don’t all ours?
Unending,
continual.

The cycle
unbroken,
far beyond
our control.