Does a heart shatter like glass?
Does it break into even pieces, or become sharpened shards?
I could be enjoying life
But even my calloused hands bleed
As I pick up the pieces and try to move on

Is the soul transparent like glass?
For any pure poet this is always the hope
I could be enjoying life
But instead I try to reconcile
Every mistake, every wrong turn, that I have made

And I hope my words become music
Because
Artist and musicians
Are poets trying to paint their pain
Using different shades of blue