Everything just feels so broken.
I brush yesterday's dust off my shoulders,
But for what?
If I let the dust settle
      let the dust gather
I will have a blanket
Made of ashes I couldn't afford.
Would I be warm?
If I stood under an umbrella made out of sunshine
What would happen?
Would the rays destroy me like kryptonite does superman?
I don't think so.
My friends wouldn't let that happen.
They nurture my roots
Until I flower
And they spread my petals across an atlas
So the whole world knows that love does not have to smell
Like pickles.
And I could never thank them enough for making everything a little bit less
Broken.