Why does it seem that the most beautiful things are the most fragile?
My glass heart must'ave been blown mere molecules thin
because as much as I thirst to be yolked from within
and find union with the soul of another just as agile

I am broken, shattered into pieces, every piece repaired in time.
And as selfish as all of this may seem,
there is nothing about me, I have committed no crime
in wishing that my life were held dear... a dream

I suppose I am asking too much from these droves
of human animals compelled to suffer and starve for meaning
Meanwhile I cry out of sanity for their suffering and mine, which proves
that there can be no sense in leaning:

Reliance on other leads to sorrow,
when I look to you, you see you, do you see me? I wonder
do you see me? I will be here tomorrow
to ask again and again, do you see me, or is that your blunder?