Broken things Funny thing about broken things Common in a imposters perfectionist sights Big pictures flashy Turn the small away Glorified images are made of small The small grow into big
Knowing greedy fingers pluck the flower Leaving the headless root and severed veins to perish The bloom lasts not long with its foundation Why not pluck the root, it does most of the work? It’s isn’t pretty? Define pretty. Does it keep you alive? No? How hideous! But fleeting beauty is all the rise Paise A touch, A glimpse, Broken.
Society is a very messy child Shards of what has been lays at her feet Of what’s beautiful she distorted you see She is a very jealous child With bright blue eyes that see nothing and bone straight blond hair that dares not blow in the trying wind Fair skin that never tans and dainty fingers that bears talons and touch’s not lightly Such soft skin that merely blankets her bones
Surrounding me kneels broken things Not outstandingly beautiful nor notably hideous- Broken. Every night they would sing me to sleep on my mattress by my window Quiet Broken things sing Hush One unsound whisper Is all it takes For the pieces to fall away In tears I saw as it ran over me In tears A fragment I hold fast With a broom and dust pan I sweep up my fears No no else can get cut by these selfish selfish thoughts Of mine.