Water whispers, froths and bubbles.
Tiny bodies swim in doubles,
Schooling along the edge of their world
Where the fish tank ends.

A panting tongue creates a mist;
Soft golden fur, tail in a twist,
Barking at the outside world
Where the window ends.

Poised and tense, smooth muscles coil
Whiskers twitch with internal turmoil
To track a leaf beyond her world
Where the sliding door ends.

Dreary shivers, dark and damp,
God's distant voice my only lamp.
I can only gape at the mad, mad world
Where my glass cage ends.

My thoughts are confusing.
I love them, but hate them and I can never tell if they are trying to raise me up or destroy me. I will look at myself in the mirror and think that I look pretty. I will look at myself an hour later and want to shatter the mirror with my forehead and smear the blood from my glass cuts all over my face as makeup to go to work. What difference does an hour make!?

I can't see me unless I have a mirror.
I can see everyone through that glass.
But they are looking at themselves.

The ache
The tearing in my stomach
The yearning for something that isn't food
Not food for thought
But something that fills me up
Thick raindrops that sink beneath your skin and into your bones
Being soaked all the way through into your heart
Feeling that electricity that nobody else can spark
The weight of water on your face
Pricking your eyes
and running its way down your hair
All of it
All that love and mystery and deepness
that's being in love with being alive

Sure the stars are pretty
But
Look
At
The
Night.
The deep blackness of the never-ending pit that is sky
The entirety of its beauty
You expect the night to frame the stars delicately
But if I were the night sky
I'd swallow them whole

Give me a love for living
And I shall make myself whole
There will be no more more broken pieces
Only chips
Only cracks
But that does not make me any less whole
For a window that is cracked is still a window

Smash the glass if you must, yet
do it gently using soft hammers.
Catch the fury in your breath and
release its image on the pane.

The goal is not destruction but creation,
to leave behind something cracked
yet still whole, hanging precariously together,
a reminder that we are all shards about to fall.

Tap and if it forms a line tap again,
until a lip forms a mouth, maybe yours,
a tear- an eye like your mother’s,
again, your father’s shattered brow.

Leave enough of you behind
for them to complete.
Gentrify the other glasses with
the genealogy of all your pain.

Make everything a museum of
all the world’s shattered glass
that none dare destroy  lest
even they fall apart

Like a lake of glass,
or an endless, cloudless sky.
Calm is a virtue.