Jun 2018
This broken teacup of mine,
Lays on the floor.
Pieces scattered and crushed into the carpet.
A mosaic of pain.
This broken teacup of mine,
Stabs and slices,
As I pick up the shattered porcelain.
White stained red.
This broken teacup of mine,
I can’t put back together.
I remember it fondly from when it was whole
And admire its new beauty
As I wait, patiently.
Lays on the floor.
Pieces scattered and crushed into the carpet.
A mosaic of pain.
This broken teacup of mine,
Stabs and slices,
As I pick up the shattered porcelain.
White stained red.
This broken teacup of mine,
I can’t put back together.
I remember it fondly from when it was whole
And admire its new beauty
As I wait, patiently.
Not the other poem I was going to post tonight, but inspiration comes at odd moments and I have no problems rolling with it.
Sometimes you can't put people back together, sometimes you have to wait for them to fix themselves. But that doesn't ever mean that you can't appreciate them as they were and who they are now becoming.
Sometimes you can't put people back together, sometimes you have to wait for them to fix themselves. But that doesn't ever mean that you can't appreciate them as they were and who they are now becoming.
