Anatomy of a Highly Sensitive Person

Give my heart another name,
it doesn't share resemblance with the physical
structure; doesn't pump out life without mistake.
The one in my senses is capable, 
perhaps only reliable, in that I know it will break.

It beats wild and varied,
hangs with undiagnosed weight.
If it truly shares design, then it carries
a diseased flow of life to my brain. 

It feels all too deeply, or so it seems.
Receiving and giving all too much, and yet too restrained.
Its rhythm murmuring grief,
clotting my senses; moving too soon and then too late. 


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