Not everything that is broken can be fixed.
Not all that is fixed was once broken.
The time that we spent crying for hours,
Wishing for a merciful death, instead of torture,
Waiting to be fixed, like we're broken toys.
Were we really that deluded? Was any of it real?
Are we that determined to be fixed that,
We surrender our joy for anger and despair?
Or are we in tears because we are being fixed,
Though we don't need to be.
We say we are broken, to be put back together.
Some need it, but most of us are not broken.
Most of us just need a hand,
For we are not broken, but simply cracked.
I mean sure, if you got enough cracks, you're bound to break. But till then...meh.
