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