[Trevor Conway]

I renounce the sham romance
that so many have barbed to my flesh,

all these songs, the bland swamp
of drivel set to a perfect pitch.

I am a pulsing fist of muscle,
enticing blood from lungs,

gifting nutrients to nerve and bone,
brain and liver.

Ribs have deemed me worthy of shelter,
and yet, you’ll see me overexposed

in bastard form on cards and walls,
praised in poems like a false prophet.

All I crave
is vagrant blood,

so don’t cite me when talking of love –
attach that accolade to another organ,

and mention me only – if you must –
in doctors’ clinics and hospital beds,

always striving to keep from crying
and, above all, from declarations,

though sometimes, I might admit
there’s a kind of romance in how I work.

[Jim Ramsey]

Hi Trevor,

I think the last line is not yet good enough. I don't know if something like this is better, but it seems closer to the having the punch I would like to see:

xxxxxthough, sometimes, I might admit
xxxxxto drumming up romance simply by effort.


All the best,
Jim

[Max Goodman]

I like this description of the heart: a pulsing fist of muscle,/enticing blood from lungs,/gifting [is that the right verb?] nutrients to nerve and bone,/
brain and liver.

What's the benefit of writing this first-person from the heart's pov? It feels as though the poem replaces one fallacious way of thinking about the heart with another. That can be fruitful if it is intentional, but if the poem is doing something with that tension, I'm missing it.

FWIW.

[John Riley]

Overall, I agree with Max. It seems a little confused.

This seems like a spoken word piece. I don't know much about the genre but this may fit?