The sound of glass smashing is a pang to the ears, but I’ve learned real beauty comes from broken things.

Drip
I hear water in the gutter
One upside of a broken heart is that I can write, lose guys so I can write about them.
Slip.
Here they fall through my hands just like sand from beaches.
Might sacrifice one night, wake up with red bloodshot eyes, but this poem would be beautifully written.

Most never liked me, RIP.
I had my eyes on them, but they never looked at me.
Most I’ve never talked to, RIP.
He was my realest, but he turned out to be just another poem.

Drip
I hear rain on the windowsill
I guess the good thing is I had fun with him
Crack
I’m broken again
I’m smashed along the edges of my first shattering and that’s along the edges of extreme masochism
that I let my heart break to write this poem.
Drip
Water’s dripping off my face, I’m in the shower.

The view of glass breaking is painful for the eye to see, but now I know that real beauty comes from broken things.

Will this be my best year, best year?
I’m at the frontier of golf courses, where the sun is up and blinding and the hills are green.
Will the next one stay here, stay here?
Will he call me beautiful?
Will he not succumb to the spell of fairytales snapping in the soul?
If I find him I think I might stop being a poet, a poet.
Cause happiness didn’t bring me to my notepad.
If he wants, I’ll write him a poem,
but it would be pretty bad.
Cause I’m only good when I’m lonely, lonely.
I never said I love you to a man.
I never had a man say I love you to me, only that I was hot and he wanted to **** me.
But if I do I’ll find beauty in being with somebody else, but for now I think
that beauty comes from broken things, broken things.