I was a mosaic collected
in scratched nails
                  imbedded, bleeding
like I was meant to be touched
but can you really grasp a reflection..

How could you identify what
          I see, within the fallen feathers
of a crows smiles.
                               I'm hidden within,
a pile of dead bones wishing to fly again.

I could walk within the footsteps of those
in front of me on calm sands.
                               But I choose to run on
a beach of shattered shells, this is life!
broken dreams never really washing away.

I see smiles kept aloft by matchsticks,
                                       ready to ignite.
Within there embers embracing the true
               reflection of how I see others.
Parched realties of never really loving you
or another for the failures of there integrity.

I could love,
             in blindness.
But what is seen is nothingness..
I could love,
             in thought.
But memories will always lie to oneself.
I could have love,
             in myself.
But nothing ever comes from that..

Until I realize that I'm not in control
of this collage of moments.
                    I'm a Paper-Mache,
randomly collecting on a frame work
           of contemplation, that I will only
see on the completion of my life.

I'm but a part that I thought was
                                 irrelevant, immaterial.
But I'm just a piece of life collecting on
the shattered shells slowly reforming to
realize there is more to life than sandy shores.

Your paper mache face slowly disintegrates and falls from your cardboard bones
The salt from the pools in your eyes create sharks with heavy appetites, looking for something to bite, and you look tasty

Your wooden eyes have begun to rot and splinter the inside of your eyelids
And the wood shards create stitches, leaving your tear ducts swollen and pinned to the rest of your surrounding skin

The porcelain inside my mouth creates lies with every light it reflects as it shines
And the moon is the only one who really knows what it is that I want out of life
The chilly, stone lips pucker up to give me a kiss, so cold on my skin that I freeze up from it

The fact remains, we're always going to be oil and water
Two things that just don't mix
That's chemistry, babe, which is something I'm pretty sure we are supposed to have
And if it isn't there, why did we bother to take this class for zero credits?