I was not always this way
Broken
I was happy once
Before they stole it
I did not always assume
They fashioned me this way.

These walls I have were not always here
They were created to protect me
Protect me from the wrong people
The ones with secreted intention

My generosity was once limitless
I would love without boundaries
I could trust
I was free
Most notably I was me

I was sweet
They made me bitter
I was once warm
They made me cold
I was loving once
They made me hate
I was once open
They made me shut myself away

I was Happy
Truly happy once
It all began to fade
Attempting to shelter myself from harm
I built these walls
No love allowed
They changed me
Picking up the pieces to loves bitter tragedies
I remain
Another shattered masterpiece

People always ask me:
"What do you plan to do?"
"You need a job, something
to do."

But what if I don't want a job,
but instead I wanted
to be, not do.

So I said "I'd like to
be a book, filled with
wonder and words."
"A book?" they ask.

"Yes.
Books are filled with
darkness and light,
wonder and delight."

Books are not only beautiful,
but also helpers.

I've learned most of
what I know
from written words.

Wouldn't it be nice
to be made of
some?

The question isn't "What
do you want to do?"
It's
"What do you want
to be."

Dampened darkness created a threshold from day to night;
Embracing clouds held greedily, that day, the light.
The passage from night to rise wandered stray that day;
But ever gleamed the drained abundance of cloudy grey.