It's been years since you were whole;
you're missing pieces like a second-hand puzzle
and I wish more than anything to fill in your cracks,
but I understand that task is yours
and yours alone.
No, I can't fix you
but I'll stand by your side with my tool belt,
ready to handcraft any means of helping you fix yourself.

She did not crack perfectly;
Never the less, she was like an egg
because when she shattered, her insides poured out in a silent heap.
They made no sound but were as vibrant as the Sun to those who were blessed with the gift of sight.
Only it was not a controlled demolition, there was no hand to snap her over a bowl; her destruction was a silent kind of violent.
Her shell broke into a million pieces and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men never even bothered to try putting her back together again.
And so while everyone else continued in their deceived senses, she was left in her imperfect and cracked mess, insideless.

From the hands of greats,
Bukowski and Cummings
or perhaps the hands of amateurs,
tired souls left typing late
into the moonlight
as if the words spilling across their screens
could ever truly spill out their hearts
with any sincerity.
None the less, to save my sanity,
I save a poem.
A poem by any hand;
big or small or aged or new,
their hands hold me through
their creations, embracing me
and keeping me planted
firmly in this world.

Spring is in the air:
the birds, flowers, and lovers
have returned once more.