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In Japan there is an art form
called kintsukuroi which means
to repair with gold
When a ceramic *** or bowls
would break the artisan would
put the pieces together again
using gold or silver lacquer
to create something stronger
forevermore beautiful than before
The breaking is never something
to hide
It doesn’t mean that the work of the art
is ruined or without value because
it is different than what anticipated
Kintsukuroi is a way of living that
embraces every flaw and imperfections
Every crack is part of the  history of
the object and it becomes forevermore
beautiful
precisely because it has been
broken
I’ve told this story to tell you this
People are the same way
Being hurt or heart broken
or feeling broken generally
is not who you are
It is something that happens to you
Rise up stand proud and move forward
Stop looking about what the world says
about you and who you are
The value of your worth is more
than you can ever conceive
and when you trust
in your heart you’ll understand
the Power you house within
Cracks and all your true value
can never be lost in translation
Know the value of your worth, you worth more than gold... made to an exact specification!
Look into mine eyes
tell me what thou see

I see a prison, a soul
with hopes of escaping

I see padded walls
with a crazed man aching

I see deep sorrow
a human breaking

I see a gray sky
always raining

I see a husk of skin
eternally forsaking

I see a chasm
forever isolating

I see a mind
always creating
and hating
thy creation

I gazed upon thine eyes
and I saw hell in thy pupils

Is it wrong to feel
it all unfold
to want my tongue to peel
off the words that have been foretold
to let my chest burst open
feel the nectar of flowers all find their place within
My body's nothing more than a token
caught in darkness for far too long my lively swarm has been

And oh, the misery
I can't let them out
The only bliss, you see
is when the humming isn't so loud
But today my ears can't take the noise
my body aches, its been holding and breaking
I thought somewhere in all that buzzing I heard a voice
But I'm afraid I'm just anothers nest in the making

In my dreams I see my bees leaving
they all fly away
and I can't blame the spider for weaving
turning this hive into her own flowery array
Soon this place might as well be forgotten
for I know nothing about actual flowers
and they will all be rotten
and there over my lost mind an old tree towers

This tree will be my grave
I shall be buried alive
til something may save
the leftovers of my overgrown heart, this bee hive
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