They say that when something is broken,
And put together again,
It is more beautiful than before.
That somehow,
Amongst all of those cracks,
Crevices,
And flaws that once weren't there,
There is some appeal.
That somehow,
In the broken reflection
Of a shattered mirror,
There is a fineness unattainable
In original perfection.
If that is true, I should be
Far more beautiful
Than it seems I really am,
Far more valuable
Than I could ever hope to be,
And far sturdier,
Having been broken before,
Than I was in my mint condition.
Alas, this isn't how things tend to work.
Life has a way of rearranging the compounds
Of our minds,
Twisting and bending and breaking them
So that we suddenly think, fear, and hope
In the exact ways it wants us to,
Instead of the ways that we want to.
Suddenly there is an alteration that cannot be undone,
A seam that cannot be ripped,
A stain that cannot be removed,
Though we attempt to both free
And punish ourselves
With every kind of bleach
We can reach for.
And still to no avail.
I feel as though I am a sad,
Sad piece of merchandise,
Sitting in the corner at the flea market,
Where no one sees me,
And no one wants me.
Why should I blame them?
By nature, we are always looking
For the next best thing,
Shinier, newer, something we
Can be proud to possess
And show off to the world.
This can hardly be said
Of a tarnished good,
One that cannot be fixed by
Any amount of glue,
Polish,
Or gloss.
It is difficult to hide one's scars
Underneath a sheen that's sure to fade,
Eventually revealing what a fraud you are
To all who admired you.
This is the heartbreaking truth
When it comes to what is broken.
What is shattered,
Dented,
Marred and scarred,
Secondhand and second-best,
Cheapened by its battered use,
And prized only by those
Who don't know any better
Than to add it to their pile of junk.
"Maybe it'll come in handy one day..."
Or maybe....
...just maybe...
...it could be handy now.
Maybe with the proper TLC,
A gentle hand and a gentle heart,
Willing to work with what others
Overlooked as worthless and a waste of time,
That something could become a real treasure,
Something valuable and beautiful to behold,
Maybe even more so than it was
Before someone ever dropped it,
And left it, trashed.
I believe a little love goes a long way,
But that a lot of love can change anything.
And that we would be surprised
At what that which we deem broken
Is really capable of doing for us.
To be put back together... I will smile.
To be loved despite my cracks and dents... I will laugh.
To be seen as beautiful, valuable, and desirable as that which is new, I will rejoice.
To be given the chance to be everything you ever needed... you will never want for anything.
The more often that something is damaged,
The less it has to offer.
I have very little I can give,
But for what little spirit I have left,
My heart,
And the love I have saved up in both,
That I am more than eager to share.
And although I fear being broken again,
Left to be another repair project for a forgiving soul,
I can't help but think it is better to be held and dropped,
Than never picked up at all.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
They say that when something is broken,
And put together again,
It is more beautiful than before.
That somehow,
Amongst all of those cracks,
Crevices,
And flaws that once weren't there,
There is some appeal.
That somehow,
In the broken reflection
Of a shattered mirror,
There is a fineness unattainable
In original perfection.
If that is true, I should be
Far more beautiful
Than it seems I really am,
Far more valuable
Than I could ever hope to be,
And far sturdier,
Having been broken before,
Than I was in my mint condition.
Alas, this isn't how things tend to work.
Life has a way of rearranging the compounds
Of our minds,
Twisting and bending and breaking them
So that we suddenly think, fear, and hope
In the exact ways it wants us to,
Instead of the ways that we want to.
Suddenly there is an alteration that cannot be undone,
A seam that cannot be ripped,
A stain that cannot be removed,
Though we attempt to both free
And punish ourselves
With every kind of bleach
We can reach for.
And still to no avail.
I feel as though I am a sad,
Sad piece of merchandise,
Sitting in the corner at the flea market,
Where no one sees me,
And no one wants me.
Why should I blame them?
By nature, we are always looking
For the next best thing,
Shinier, newer, something we
Can be proud to possess
And show off to the world.
This can hardly be said
Of a tarnished good,
One that cannot be fixed by
Any amount of glue,
Polish,
Or gloss.
It is difficult to hide one's scars
Underneath a sheen that's sure to fade,
Eventually revealing what a fraud you are
To all who admired you.
This is the heartbreaking truth
When it comes to what is broken.
What is shattered,
Dented,
Marred and scarred,
Secondhand and second-best,
Cheapened by its battered use,
And prized only by those
Who don't know any better
Than to add it to their pile of junk.
"Maybe it'll come in handy one day..."
Or maybe....
...just maybe...
...it could be handy now.
Maybe with the proper TLC,
A gentle hand and a gentle heart,
Willing to work with what others
Overlooked as worthless and a waste of time,
That something could become a real treasure,
Something valuable and beautiful to behold,
Maybe even more so than it was
Before someone ever dropped it,
And left it, trashed.
I believe a little love goes a long way,
But that a lot of love can change anything.
And that we would be surprised
At what that which we deem broken
Is really capable of doing for us.
To be put back together... I will smile.
To be loved despite my cracks and dents... I will laugh.
To be seen as beautiful, valuable, and desirable as that which is new, I will rejoice.
To be given the chance to be everything you ever needed... you will never want for anything.
The more often that something is damaged,
The less it has to offer.
I have very little I can give,
But for what little spirit I have left,
My heart,
And the love I have saved up in both,
That I am more than eager to share.
And although I fear being broken again,
Left to be another repair project for a forgiving soul,
I can't help but think it is better to be held and dropped,
Than never picked up at all.
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