A poet with a poem purely made of glass
Holds on to it dearly as each day shall pass
Waiting for that moment to simply let it go
For the poem will only shatter onto the minds who wish to know.

In my eyes i see evil,
A window depicting
A devil beside me.

I couldn't see though him,
As i hurried through the rain.
His reflection stained dry
Just inside the glass.

A man slowly writhing,
tossing, and turning,
Tattered soaked clothing,
On a dampened cardboard bed,
On the wrong side of the glass.

There he suffers,
Feet from salvation,
My train station.

A shiver passes through me
As i enter this cathedral of a station,
Population: one bulletproof guard,
Ensuring that i am not bothered
By the sickening feeble,
****** and outside.
But that does bother me.

Is there no church
In this place of momentum,
On the greener side of the glass,
Where we do not stop moving?

cold air is burning my face but the feeling is muffled, far away.
i look at you, stoic menace.
you are a block of ice and i am a flurry of snowflakes, raging, cold, soft.
you ask me what the heart speaks.
i do not know how to tell you what emotion is, just like i do not know how to explain to you what i am.

(things far too familiar are seldom easy to translate into a language someone might understand, a language that is not your own, a language you've forgotten the taste of)

mountains on my shoulders feel lighter than they should, and you take lightness to mean of less matter.
perhaps you think these mountains have a hollow center, are made of feathers.
you and i are two different forms of water.
i have known ice, and you have known snow, years before today.
i have known stagnance, you have known change, you took the word like an icicle to your chest, falling too far into your cave.
pull me out, you say, and i am frost lining your windowsill.
leave me be, you say, and you are a dull fog, whispering to glass.
through the glass, we interact.
you are trapped.

I'm successful enough
to have decent clothes
to rescue a dog
to have a place
to sleep

A decent enough car
and a garage for it
and a sink
and a fridge
and beer

A woman's love
Is what I miss
Is what I want
Is what I wish
I had

The pain I feel
from loneliness
from loving you
from behind the pane of
glass

I am glass.
Glass is a strange thing.
Thick enough
It can with stand more pressure than most things can not
Refusing to break
It is strong.
Transparent.
Bullet proof even
It lets all the light in
And even more light out
It can be smooth
Beautiful
However when damaged,
As I am now
It becomes weak in places
So Fragile the wind can shatter it
Thin and rough  
Holding itself together with cracks
Trying not to show it’s chips.
When burned,
Glass turns black.
Smokey
Changing the transparency dark.
No longer letting one see inside.
Not showing what once shined through.
Casting shadows on everything around it.
Glass tries to trace the scars life has left behind.
Tries covering those cracks.
But they are forever
Reminding glass that at one point,
It fought for something.
It believed in something
Even if it left it scared, cracked.
I am glass.

I feel over my glass body
Everyday

Looking for the cracks
I'm sure will show again one day

Don't get too close to people
What if they try to crack me

I run my hand over the last crack
Like the last time

I open up and people are nice for a while
But then they turn

They lash out at me
And their words leave cracks

Broken and afraid
I stay away

It happens again and again
And my glass body is far too cracked

It can't be helped if I have to stick alone
It's the way I must live

i am no object
shattered, unlike paperweight
i’m meant to cut deep.

Look at you.
Your eyes all red,
Cheeks puffy and slick with tears, and
Lips puckered.

You're crying,
God knows why.

You hate yourself--
Every single detail.

You curse yourself--
Anytime you can.

You can't find a reason to keep going on.

Your life is perfect;
You have everything you need.
A lovely home, family, friends, and food on the table.
Everything is perfect.

Then,
Why are you crying?
God knows why.

You scream
At the top of your lungs--
Banging your fists against the glass.

It shatters.
You lose yourself in the tears, in the glass,
The blood of your image is cut open.

You cry,
And God knows why.