For the past month I’ve been trying to write
About everything- from the way flower petals bend, and look so soft, why I’ve been feeling so depressed lately, even about how when I was a kid I played the flute
But none of it sticks, I can’t get passed stanza four
I’ve had this problem before
Where I can only describe a bending sky, but never can I get to the way it breaks.
But I swear I’ve been broken before
More broken than junk yard cars, and dropped glass bottles
And I’m still gluing myself back together, over and over
Getting spare parts to try to fix me
When this is all over my new skin will be composed of words written over centuries
And my edges will be a little rough
Covered with a bit of rust
But who isn’t
My best friend is a mess of parts that don’t quite fit together right
But she makes me strong, and when I break down she will take herself apart to fix me
And that’s something we all need
When I was little and I still played the flute
I dyed my hair green for the first time
Going to music class for the second time, my teacher no longer recognized me
And back then I didn’t carry around an arsenal of defense mechanisms
And when I was told I looked like a boy, I pretended that I wasn’t getting chipped away at
That's probably why I will never enjoy band, and I can’t look into the eyes of a music teacher
Every middle school poem was brought back to red roses and flowers
And how your hand was softer than a newly budding flower petal
In all reality that’s why I don’t about flowers anymore
And I’ve been so depressed lately because I can’t write
But I guess junk yard cars and broken bottles can’t write either