I am a piece of glass.

a glass that has been shattered time and time again,
losing a piece of me with every new bash/
a remnant of what I once was.

If you try to put me back together, the world will never look the same,
for
I
am
shattered.

If you try to put me back together,
you need to remember that I am a broken piece of glass,
you will hurt yourself if you hold me in your hand,
and then I will hurt you more.

Don't hold too tight,
but don't let go.

Looking at the world through me may be hard.
I have fallen so many times that I am mere piece of myself now.
Me as your lens of the world would be small and stained.
But then again, I can show you the world.


If you try to find yourself in me,
you need remember
that I am not a mirror,
but a hollow thing where you can never be reflected.

It's a lonely existence.

I am a barrier yet I am a transporter.

You will never know

I am transparent.
If you want to find inside, you can see right through me.
But do not be deceived, for I am empty.

But with all this,
I am a piece of glass.
I am fragile;
I can be broken,
so please handle with care.

We were placed inside a glass fortress
Dull knives were all we were given
Expected to know how to survive
We attempted to carve our way out
To leave a mark of any kind
Desperation flooded our insides
What will we do if we never make it
How will the world ever know of our existence
Right above our righteous heads
The sun flooded in
Yet we remained oblivious
To warmth it gave
The light it provided
The life it created
The sun was above us all along
The fortress was never sealed
We were far too busy trying to leave our mark
We could never see
There was an escape all along
Into reality

Eponymous, insidious indifference.
Existence.
Towers before fates road, exquisite.
Beckoning the soul to a fork.
A question.

A man can break who he used to be?
Or will he be? Until he breaks.
Ponder at the fork, day passes day.
From end to end, the requiem,
sings and rings, like a lovely dream
But beautiful things.
Like destiny.
Its crescendos extinguish.

Try though, he does to see both roads.
To sense and see the masquerade.
No map to guide.
No stars to follow.
No end to see,
Through his glass shadow.

He greets me with a light kiss
reminiscent of a monarch butterfly
delicately landing after a long migration.

Iced lemonade in a glass
rests on the table in front of us,
witnessing the butterflies on our faces.

Water vapor relaxes when it sees us,
and the glass leaves a culaccino
for forever and a day.

My body is sixty percent water,
and I attempt to float with the oil,
coasting with closed eyes and mind.
But I am sinking to the bottom of the glass,
where cold, hard rocks bruise with the truth,
and I press my hands to the glass to keep myself standing.

Although the rocks ground me,
the submersion chokes my throat.
If I crack the glass with my bare hands,
the acid-laced arrows will lacerate my back,
and I will be a trembling target fading into mist.
but the gentle breeze will greet me with open arms.