I create, but cannot make
Myself a heart that will not break,
And still feel in the same way,
Compared to flesh, steel feels so fake,
Iron alters love's sweet taste,
My tongue finds it a waste.
With out the honey from the hive,
Do bees have reason to be alive-
To pollinate?
Would each flower taste like hate?

These broken hands on this broken man
Can't be fixed by sand pressed into glass.
It just melts and drips into the cracks,
And I find when I slip they just come back.
I know this fix isn't permanent,
Of all I make,
My crutch is the only thing that breaks.
I'm lame. Crippled by my shame,
And she's the one to blame,
Boasting perfection,
I'm shadowed by her projection.
Disregarding my creations, with haste
I wallow in her unending hate.

I make, but can't create
Myself a lovely face,
One that she can grace,
With loving touch
At a gentle pace.

Her heart is the place where my emotions go to waste.

-SLuR