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Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
I live a life collecting pieces.

Pieces of fantasies forever the

realm of

childhood;

Pieces of imaginations turned wild and wonderful.

Pieces of laughter, confusion, delight and tears.

Pieces of melancholy, shards of sorrow;

fragments of regret, portions of jealousy.

Sections of desire, passion, leading us on

blindly to others of

heartache and yearning.


The rough edges of frustration, yet the

smooth curves of contentment, peace.

I live a life collecting pieces;

this is what I’m told makes a life worthy.

Worthy of remembrance, joy; fulfilment.

But only I can see the struggles,

feel my bones bearing more weight;

the aching tiredness I fall into,

when I’m not at work,

collecting the pieces I speak of.


The fright I hastily pick up off the ground,

when I compare my clumsy, ***** array of

pieces to your perfect and bound ones;

when you aren’t looking.

The dread I reach for, because you leave it crushed

beneath your feet.

The nervous tension pulling strings beneath my skin;

leaving me a reckless, vulnerable puppet

collecting the pieces left in your wake.


Torn to scattered, dusty pieces;

Reborn a puzzle of simplicities,

bright and shining pieces woven into form.

No matter where we have been, where we

were taken,

where we were loved,

where we were betrayed,

where we fought bravely,

where we surrendered nobly,

where we were embittered,

where we learnt of strengths and weaknesses;

we are all made of pieces.


We are collections of pieces.

You and I.

Our collection is known as life;

each piece is our experience of something.

Someone.

Somewhere.

And the more we know each other, the more

often our hands can reach for two of the same,

available pieces left before us.

I pen them down, keep them special and fragrant.

I live a life collecting pieces

and often they are of you.
SøułSurvivør Sep 2016
Slammed to "Pick Up the Pieces"
by Average White Band

Life's a jungle I have found
Torn to pieces all around
There are foxes - there are hounds
Zoos where wild things abound
Just listen to the funky sound
Now we're going underground....

Underground where rabbits go
Down tunnels in a faster slow
It's all over, don't you know
Pick & Shovel, Rake & ***
You're down with it, on the low
Like you're Edgar Allan Poe
Feast or famine - friend or foe
It must go on... The Truman Show...



Jigsaw pieces - play the game
It is just a crying shame
Dance for dancing - Fame for fame
Break a leg and you are lame
No one'll ever know your name...

PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES



You're a tiger, nothin' nice
You've been bought, you had a price
Yeah, you tore off quite a slice
Well, some are men and some are mice
Some eat meat and some eat rice
Some are fire - some are ice
Some are ticks and some are lice
Let me give you some advice...

Just so you are never boring
While you're out there pimping, *******
While you're the one they are adoring
Just watch out for polished flooring
Don't break loose from your fast mooring
Into the pit you will be soaring
After that there's no restoring
Listen to the lion roaring...


Chorus


Here we are in the U.S.
We are pampered we are blessed
Sometime soon there'll be a test
We'll ride the Bronco way out West
The Magnificent Seven rides abreast
There's a new Sheriff, have you guessed?
With a tin badge on His vest
He does not play - He does not jest
I'm afraid, I will attest!

It won't be fun, just wait and see
It will be "pain" *with a capitol P!

On this bus, don't ride for free
This is not a game of Wii
There's a port and there's a lea
There's a shrub (Bush), and there's a tree
There's an us, and there's a we

There's a YOU, and there's a ME...

PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES
PICK UP THE PIECES



SoulSurvivor
(C) 9/14/2016



https://youtu.be/xpflST8xWm8
"Pick Up the Pieces" extended version
Average White Band
I heard this song today and had to slam to it! This is a shortened version of the poem.
I'm going to do it at Open Mic next week.

The reference to Shrub (George W Bush)
should be explained. My family always calls George Bush shrub... LOL! :-)
Kelly Bitangcol May 2016
I remember you telling me before that you saw yourself as a jigsaw puzzle.* I never understood you then because why would you compare yourself with a thing that requires pieces. You explained that you have 6 pieces in you, pieces that made you, created you. Pieces that were the reason for the person you are today, pieces that helped you function, in other words, pieces that made you whole. That was why you called yourself as a 6 piece jigsaw puzzle. But then one day, you told me all of those pieces were missing. You said someone or something took it away from you and you have no idea how to get them back. You explained to me thoroughly how they were removed from you. The first piece was removed when you were in your room one night, hearing your parents fight, yelling and arguing, telling hurtful things to each other. So you decided to put some headphones on and played some music so you wouldn’t hear their shouts but then they barged into your room saying one of them is leaving and you have to decide which one of them you are coming with, you pretended to not hear them but deep inside of you, even though how loud the volume was, it suddenly stopped without you muting it, because all you could hear was their love for each other slowly fading away. The second piece was removed when one day some unwanted visitors came into your house and they told you they call themselves as demons and that they brought you things that you cannot possibly return; you opened the boxes and see that those things were called depression and anxiety. The third piece was removed when your so called best friends told you they were always there for you but when you were sitting on a bathroom floor filled with blood and hopelessness nobody came to pick you up.  The fourth piece was removed when you someone told you they will help you find those lost pieces but one day she was just not there, and instead of finding the missing ones, one of the remaining was lost again. The fifth piece was removed when you saw him, the love of your life, loving another being that wasn’t you and when you asked why he told you he just couldn’t deal with someone who was like a puzzle that wasn’t solved, you were about to tell him you were once the one he was looking for but then he told you, oh scratch it, a puzzle that could never be solved. And the last and final piece was removed, because life took it away from you. And then suddenly all of those pieces were lost.


I want to help you, i want to do everything just to find those pieces. But you’ve got to help yourself also. You are the biggest help you need, and maybe, just maybe, those pieces can be found in the most unexpected places. Perhaps the first piece can be found when you’re listening to your favourite song and the lyrics felt like blankets that comfort you when it’s cold and suddenly it felt like home. First piece found. Perhaps it’s the feeling of waking up at 5:30 in the morning, feeling ******, and when you went outside, you saw the sunrise, and realised that somehow you can rise again like that. Second piece found. Maybe it was sitting in a cafe, sipping unnecessary caffeine, looking at the people who were passing in front of you, thinking of how much they’ve been through, and still surviving like you, and somehow that made you feel better, that’s why your face formed an unnecessary smile. Third piece found. Maybe it was when it rained so hard, but it doesn’t compare to your tears, you cried and cried, as the rain poured and poured, then the rain suddenly stopped and the sky formed a rainbow, you looked at it and think that maybe your tears can form colours too. Fourth piece found. Perhaps it’s when you can’t sleep at night, so you just look at your scars, before you thought they were ugly and disgusting, they did nothing to you but made you remember how much of a mess you are, but now you look at them in a different way, they weren’t battle scars, because battle was an understatement on how difficult the things they had overcome. And now you see them as a reminder of how much of a soldier you are. Fifth piece found. And maybe, it was when you decided to go to an art museum, you were fascinated by the wonderful paintings, then you thought, you used to be like those works of art; beautiful and important. But then you suddenly heard one painting, whispering you something, it said, a masterpiece is still a masterpiece no matter how broken it is. Sixth piece, and final piece, found.


So, darling, If by means life took those away from you, you should do everything to get those back. And yes, you will tell me, nothing can bring back those pieces anymore, but you can be a puzzle piece that is solved without the pieces you had before, you can find those pieces without asking for help, you can find those on your own, you can make pieces all by yourself. It doesn’t matter how fast you puzzled it out, the only thing that matters is that you solved it. *You solved the jigsaw puzzle. You solved you.
  **And guess what? You will be whole again. You will realise you always was, and that is the reason you will not let anyone or anything, change that again.


YOUR HAPPINESS SURVIVED...

Did you ever think of
What happened to those glass pieces?

The shattered glass pieces
Held some of your happiness like
A mother breastfeeding a new born baby
It slowly gathered and tried to joined
The remaining left over happiness

Years passed but glass pieces
Never parted with your happiness
And preserved it with lots of care

The broken glass pieces
Still hugs and kisses your happiness
With the hope of giving it back to you

Your happiness is secure & safely alive
With the shattered glass pieces

The remaining life of the glass pieces
Is destined to more breakages

Don't worry if
The glass pieces are crushed, stamped
Still shattered further in more tiny pieces
Disintegrated into powder

Be sure whatever they do to glass pieces
It will not let your happiness go
It's clenching your happiness tightly

Come one day to find how
The glass pieces are living
Come and see the castle of happiness
The shattered glass pieces has built
Naming your happiness "An Angel"

What if I told you that
I am the glass of LOVE that encased your
Happiness and that you shattered...!

(Read the flashback story in NOTES below)


One day when you were a kid
Your happiness encased in glass = shattered
You cried and scambled
To pick up some of your happiness
You wrapped your happiness
with a cloth and put inside the bag
You dropped the bag in a river
But grasp some pieces of happiness
You put some happiness under lock and key
But your happiness was stolen
You tracked down remaining happiness
and now carry your happiness in your pockets
Sometimes, it falls, out, you find it
And YOU cherish what happiness is left behind

YOUR HAPPINESS SURVIVED...

Did you ever think of
What happened to glass pieces?

(Read the poem...)
Amanda Jul 2013
Pieces of Me
Take a closer look and you shall see
all these little, pretty, ****** up pieces of me
here they reside for all to see
because I wear them proudly on my sleeves
all these scattered and jagged pieces of me.

Sometimes these pieces of me get lost in their great abyss
from time to time they wander there and scream in an innocent bliss
“Hey, this is beautiful, does anyone else see this”?
These pieces of me are all unique and different
but as a whole they are not all here yet
so the rest of them I will not forget
what is even more, I await them with no regrets.

Take a closer look and you shall see
all these little, pretty, ****** up pieces of me
here they reside for all to see
because I wear them proudly on my sleeves
all these scattered and jagged pieces of me.

These pieces of me come home at their own will
and once we connect, it is me that they fulfill
attempting to whole the person sitting at the windowsill.
But for now, I am sitting here just wishing
all my irrational illogical pieces to just start glistening
and open themselves to a universe that is listening.

Take a closer look and you shall see
all these little, pretty, ****** up pieces of me
here they reside for all to see
because I wear them proudly on my sleeves
all these scattered and jagged pieces of me.

My goal is one day to achieve  
a complex puzzle so beautiful and complete
something everyone could see and think, “wow isn’t that just so lovely”?
A lovely puzzle made from the finest, tiniest, prettiest, scattered, jagged, unique,
different, irrational, illogical, and ****** up pieces of me.
euphoria Oct 2014
in pieces
my heart lay scattered
across the floor in pieces
we became friends
from pieces
we evolved into something more

from pieces
she picked up my heart
in pieces
one by one

with glue she gave me
a fresh start in pieces
she put back my heart
she put back my reason

to live
to love
to feel

in pieces i stay until
i learn how to put my heart
back together

to find hope from above
from pieces
she put back my heart
from pieces
she gave me a fresh start

but just like kale goes stale
when ***** hands grip and pull
my heart stays fresh for only so long

it was only a matter of time before
the glue gave way and the pieces broke once more
MBishop Jul 2014
When I say everything is crashing to pieces,
Falling apart before my very unadulterated eyes,
I don't mean it as a metaphor.
No. I mean things are literally breaking to bits.

When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
With every step I take across this suspension bridge, I can feel the ground give way to my weight and endlessly tumble and twist toward its impending demise to the unsuspecting ground below. (Albeit, it has yet to have trouble with the racing automobiles wizzing past me with a taunting doppler)

When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
I have the Midas touch.
Only, when things come in brief contact with my fare skin, they need not turn into gold but rather chaos.

When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
With every flip of the switch comes an explosion of glass bits and fiery yellow sparks shooting awry (give my thanks to the short fuse)

When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
I attempt to live out my usual ordinary uneventful lifestyle, and I leave a wake of destruction in my route to the corner store! (Remind me to apologize to the florist- I'll have to get him some newly birthed petunias)

When I say everything is crahsing to pieces, I mean
I fear cutting onions lest the knife get fed up with being dulled by various vegitables and find its way to my throat, holding me hostage in the kitchen via blade tip to jugular

When I say everything is crashing to pieces, I mean
I would be far from surprised if the monsters under the bed had a mutiny and overthrew their sane captain who keeps them from overturning my mattress every night, bless him

When I say everything is crashing to pieces,
Falling apart before my very mundane eyes, I don't mean it figuratively.
No. Things are literally breaking into tiny wooden splinters.
But don't you for a second dilute your mind into thinking this bothers me in any way.
I've learned to just let the pieces fall where they may
Bad luck
L Smida Feb 2013
Life is all about sorting through endless puzzle pieces
Keeping the ones you find fit
And simply tossing the ones that don't belong
But sometimes it's not always that easy
We get confused and overwhelmed when too many pieces are being thrown at us at once
We might accidentally toss a good piece away not knowing so
Or when a piece doesn't fit
Sometimes we turn and angle it in just about every way possible
Until we finally discover that it just does not go there
And the previous pieces we had in place sometimes shift and become distorted with time
Which makes them change and no longer fit in the places they originally belonged
So life consists of a constant fluctuation between gain and loss
It's just the way it goes
If you can search deep enough and find those rare puzzle pieces that are permanent
Constant figures that don't change
Those are what can help you build the rest of your puzzle
But if you're constantly gaining and losing without any foundation
No permanent pieces
You might as well be running around in circles
But then again
There's not much else to do until you find that foundation you're looking for
Some people run in circles all their lives
Others are lucky and build complete masterpieces of their puzzles
But don't give up looking
Those pieces are out there
It's exhausting and you have to be determined
It's easy to lose yourself when you become so tired that you can't tell the good pieces from the bad
You might start building off the bad
Thinking that you're getting somewhere
And then one day you wake up and all those pieces are gone
And you're left with nothing
And have to start all over from scratch
That's when it gets to it's roughest point
But you have to keep building
Trial and error
You have to learn along the way
Get to know yourself
I know that sounds clichè
But it's true
A lot of people don't know who they are or what they want
If you're one of those people
Play around with a combination of pieces
Fit them together and see what you like
The worst thing you can do is lie to yourself
You'll never get anywhere that way
Lying means you're choosing all the wrong puzzles
Take what you like
Put it together
Be aggressive
Be you
Simon Oct 2019
What’s happened! A voice remarked. Why are my puzzle pieces scattered in a wasteland? Another voice spoke up, sounding distant. That’s what I’d like to know! Then more followed. Sounding like a choir of different voices were in effect. Except none of the voices sounded cheery in their perfect chorus on cue. A shriek followed. A wasteland full of shrieks rumbled the ground. Ejecting lots of dust. Blinding visibility across a wide landscape! A landscape full of sand. Governing a deadly waste scouring a dryness accumulating pieces of voices not to far off from one another. Dust from the shrieks rumbling the ground, finally clear. Settling a glimpse at what has been shrieking with such volumes of obscure reasoning. Puzzle…PIECES! Huh? Who said that…? The voice asked, completely taken off guard. What instrument are we trying to provide here? Not sure I’m exactly wondering what your trying to offer by the term (instrument)? Having instruments aren’t folly you know. Another voice interrupting the other voices conversing nonsense. You guys do realize non of what your saying is making any practical sense? Like…at ALL! Huh? One voice replied. Another joining in. Well if your so clever…why don’t you entertain us with how things should really be voiced? Gladly! The more logical voice commented. The voice acting snobbish made a sound. Showcasing it didn’t like being told what it knew and what it didn’t know. The dust has settled. The two voices conversing said on cue. Your point…? No logic, until you display your horizons onto the landscape which shows what we are. One voice replied confused. Logic? Another responded. Horizons? Then on cue again. Landscape??!! The logical voice continued. Just looking around the landscape, which introduces the horizon of who, what, and where you are. Making the logical assessment that, well…everything…is what should have been since the very beginning. Panting for just a single moment. Without claim or focus…the end! The two conversing voices completely dumbfounded, sighed very harshly! Finally deciding to take the more logical one’s words more seriously. Other voices following on cue. Which made all voices look down toward there surroundings. The logical one smiled brightly! AHHH! Another shriek came. O…JEEESSSUUUSSS!!! More shrieks accumulated the wasteland. Prompting more dust to rumble. Popping all over the horizon’s visibility again! So, what did we learn about this very confusing, obscuring display? Well…easy! A voice said from no where. That it was a display of nurturing. Huh…? Really? The one sounding like the narrator drawn in by the voices interest. Ya, well… They stopped to rethink what they just offered in response. Your hesitating. The narrator’s voice sounding suspicious. Ya, well… Not sure how to express what I saw. Still remaining suspicious, the narrator continued. Anda…what is it…you exactly…saw…? The voice from no where exploded all built up energy in one gigantic spurt! There was puzzle pieces scattered in a wasteland! They had no identity to speak of. Pieces deconstructed in a sand covered landscape full of dry essence. And…and… They stopped mid-thought to catch their breath! The narrator didn’t speak a word. The dust was symbolizing ones missing grasp at not figuring out they were all apart of the same form. The same essence. Drying out claims too full of themselves through partial reasoning on potential agreements never going anywhere. Mmmmm…mhm…mmmmm… The narrator seemingly amused by this information. No identity, means no way of connecting to one another. Never to make sense of the premise one could offer. Puzzle pieces stuck in the sands of dry essence. A rut too involved to be just any coincidence. The dry essence covering up each puzzle piece. Muffling there voices forever. They tried to reach out. Trying to make sense of (what could have been). Rather then how to assort their differences into one claim. Working together wasn’t this identities strongpoint. Pieces were arguing too much. Until one seemed to be the most offering of the bunch. Thou…thou… Go on. The narrator said. No one listened to them. Following in the footsteps of one foolish puzzle piece after the other. Until there was nothing to be left, but silence. The voice from no where shrieked towards the narrator’s glaring tension toward the speaker. Laughing in disgust toward the potential risk one poses when reaching out toward its other component pieces.
Puzzle pieces will never learn if each piece doesn’t know how to direct oneself, before connecting with the bigger, more established form. Which is rendered to a mere silhouette full of details invoking a nothingness claim.
Amber S Jun 2011
whole
well, i was. for a while
i counted all the pieces, and all
numbers were counted for.
it's always so suddenly
bam.
the pieces fell away. some out
the window.
some crashed into smaller pieces
around my feet
some pieces shimmered
some pieces were pink
black, dark green, sky blue
some pieces lacked color entirely
i scrambled,
my hands fumbled
my fingers slipped, trying to
pick the pieces
some pieces cut me
and my blood stained them
dark red.

i stare at the broken pieces
and stare
A Thomas Hawkins Sep 2010
I have this magnificent puzzle hanging on my wall that I made years ago.

I can’t remember exactly but I think it’s 797 pieces

Yes that’s right

797

Because there’s pieces missing.

All sky pieces, one sky piece toward the top and over to the left and two over to the right.

They stick out like sore thumbs and everyone comments on them. Like I hadn’t seen it before.

“Do you know you’re missing a few pieces of your puzzle there?” they ask.

Some even look at the floor to see if somehow they had miracoulsly wormed their way out from between the glass and card backing and fell to the ground. Because obviously it must have happened since last time I vacuumed.

So I just shrug and tell them that I know. And I tell them that they’ve always been missing, even when I framed it, they weren’t there.

This at least stops them looking at the floor.

Quite often they’ll tell me that I should have taken it back and got my money back or got a different puzzle. One with 800 pieces instead of 797.

But I tell them no. I like my 797 piece puzzle.

I like it because it reminds me of life.

Just because life is missing a piece or two you don’t put it back in the box and return it for a refund or a different one or throw it away.

Just because you put a lot of work into life and find out that there’s pieces missing you don’t just scrap it.

You should adapt to life with missing pieces.

You should be making the best of it and be proud of its uniqueness.

It especially reminds me of my life

My life is incomplete, my life is missing a few things, but the views pretty good.

And every now and then you’ll catch me looking around for those missing pieces, it’s a habit I guess.
Megan Foukes Dec 2015
In my hand are pieces,
Pieces of you,
Pieces of me,
Pieces of life.
My hands are heavy
From the weight
Of our lives
Resting in my palms.
Try as I might,
I can't let them go.
These pieces,
Pieces of you,
Pieces of me --
Are my life.
My palms are the puzzle,
And you are my pieces.
Gord Dec 2020
I think that our hearts are not one piece, but rather, made up of many little pieces
As we go through life, we give those pieces away to those we meet who touch us.
Once given, they cannot be retrieved, they are gone forever
In return, we receive a piece from those whose lives we touch
And we are allowed to hold those pieces for the time we are together
Somehow the pieces seem larger when they are together, perhaps more complete
Those who stay in our lives and in our hearts, fill in the missing pieces of our waning hearts
When we are young, we give pieces freely without reservation and we receive many in return
Our hearts are never empty
As we experience life and love, it can disappoint us and cause us to hold our trust
To hold on to the pieces we have left.
But the more we try hold on, the more we lose, for there are no pieces to fill the void
And if we hold on too long, our hearts, our hopes and dreams will wither and die.
So give love freely, be a child. Do not be afraid of the pain and sorrow
Take the pieces and hold them as long as you can
For, in the end, when all is said and done, it is not only how many pieces you gave that matters
It is how many you received in return.
Justin Aug 2019
Way down,
I've drifted
And somehow
I'm riding the waves.
Waiting for the tide to take me home.

It's hard to believe
That things have to be
So black and white,
When the dreams that keep me warm at night
Are full of colors, so bright.

Even though life's a mess,
I'm running to keep it all together.
Chasing after the pieces of me.

I keep losing the pieces,
I keep losing the pieces,
So I let them all go.

Can we make up
The time that we've lost?
Or has it all drifted away?
Is it all over now?
Can we fix what's been broken?
Can we start over again?
I guess, for now, we'll have to wait.

I've got so much time.
Seconds like water in my lungs.
I think I'll be fine, dear.
I've been floating here so long
I've learned how to breath through the pain.

Even though life's insane,
I'm running to keep it all together.
Chasing after the pieces of me.

I keep losing the pieces,
I keep losing the pieces,
So I let them all go.
TinaMarie Jan 2012
Pieces of you linger
  In my mind, causing random smiles and outbursts of laughter,
   But sometimes I cry

Pieces of you reside
   In my heart, placing me in sentimental moods and reminiscent flight,
   But sometimes I just cry

Pieces of you remain
  In my nose, creating fragrant blissfulness
Pieces of you stay
  On my skin, triggering spontaneous quivers
Pieces of you survive
  On my tongue, causing cravings for sweet things

  But sometimes I still just cry
  
Pieces of you are indelibly ingrained
   In my soul, intensely reminding me of love and love lost
   And I cry :'(



© Tina Thompson 2011
Chandler Higgs Jul 2013
This world was built on a foundation of perfection
No weight lies upon our shoulders
Each person needs no other to survive
No others need to be added to this perfect world
For perfection is perfect

But the storm rips us apart
I huddle by myself
Covering my eyes to make it not true
The pieces of the world cut through the air
Not just the air, but my flesh, my soul
The others cower alone as well
We all hide our sobs
And muffle our cries of pain
For Perfection is not weak

The storm moves on
And the world is now dull gray
The wounded tend to themselves
And the children cry alone
We do not reach for the pieces we have lost
But instead begin to build a new world
For Perfection knows no past

This new world is perfect
Each person takes care of only their needs
Nothing can be added or lost to make it less perfect
But the perfection weighs upon my shoulders
And slices into me like glass
It hurts so much I cry
But no help is given when I reach out
For Perfection does not care

Doors close
Windows slam shut
The people scatter as they hear my rage
They do not want to talk of or hear about the terrible past
The future is what matters, they say
For Perfection does not know pain

But I find another who shows pain
The other and I, we search for the pieces of the lost world
The other and I, we lay them out
But the pieces do not fit
What has been ripped apart cannot be fixed
For Perfection is not in the pieces

The other and I, we show the pieces
To the citizens of the new perfect world
The past stands before them
Some faces are masked
Some are in tears
Worse are the cries of anguish
But each person does not acknowledge any other's pain
For Perfection is self-sufficient

The other and I now realize what Perfection is
It is covering what's inside
And pretending emotions do not exist
It is showing your faults to no one
And not caring for another
It is thinking only of the pain you are in
And being swallowed by your own misery
So much that you forget that you can heal another's pain
Just as they can heal your own
For Perfection is a mask for those too selfish and weak to show the pain inside
For Perfection is forgetting there are others like yourself
For Perfections is not knowing
That Perfection is not real

The other and I, we stop putting together the pieces
The other and I, we leave that perfect world
The other and I, we begin to make a new world
Full of imperfections
The other and I, we do not hide our pain
We show it to our imperfect world
And because it is shown
It drifts towards the heavens
And because the other and I, we show our imperfection
The imperfections fill our world
And the other and I, we begin to mend
For imperfection is healing

They all begin to see
The happiness that is brought to the other and I
The other and I, we teach them
How to show their pain
To display their imperfections
To heal the wounds inside
For imperfection makes our world beautiful

When new pain is found
We display it to the world
We help others as they help us
We are dependent on each other
Losing a person fills us with sorrow
A person being added fills us with joy
For imperfection connects us all

To say our world is perfect is far from true
Perfection and imperfection should never be compared
Pain is in our world, but there is also happiness
Loss, but also gain
Every pain we feel is matched with joy for something else
For imperfection means to have emotion
For imperfection means to live
I’ve been wondering why you love broken pieces,
If we have to behold how this love ceases.
I’ve been sinking and drowning,
Love, my only air, I have to breathe.
Oh, Misery, I didn’t see you coming.
I’ve been wondering why you love broken pieces,
My heart was wounded up, beaten up, and bruised,
It can give nothing... Yes, nothing,
But the scream of my own agony.
I’ve been wondering why you love broken pieces,
When, someday, you have to leave me alone.
Time is running faster, even better than we do.
Someday, we will be done and finished.
Time is pursuing us, yet we did nothing...
But to hold onto things that can’t be ours.
I’ve been wondering why you love broken pieces.
Oh my soul, an inexplicable puzzle,
That you tried to fix and figure out.
You picked them up for me,
You reminded me,
You would always be there to make me smile,
When I break into a million pieces.
And you’ll be the one loving me for who I am.
I’ve been wondering why you loved me...
Cause, you knew that...
Someday we have leave and go.
But no matter how hard I try to leave,
I would always be coming back for you.
To you my heart shall belong....
You are my only beat,
I had become your only tune.
I will be the smile in your blue,
And will always be the one loving you
When you turn into broken pieces.

You will see and grasp,
Someday, your words will be running after you....
Someday you’ll remember...
Someday you’ll perceive...
Why I cherish broken pieces.
Paige Jul 2017
I came to you when I was broken. I was in pieces and needed to be put back together. I was desperate to be fixed and I didn't care who fixed me. You gathered up my pieces and held them in your hands. I was sure you were going to fix me, but you held the pieces in your hands. For years you held these pieces in your hands and crumbled them into smaller pieces. I was still convinced that you would take my pieces and glue me back together until the day that you dropped them. You dropped all of the pieces and didn't bother to look back or pick them up. You stepped on them and walked away. You stepped on me and left me.
Bobbie Longo Aug 2011
The pieces of me
Were falling through the cracks
The pieces of me
Shattered from the past

These pieces I've
Been missing so long
You've put them back
Where they belong

In your shirt pocket
Grazing your chest
Where those pieces are safe
And can be loved best

You've found those shards
Where someones thrown them away
You're now who will
Keep them safe

Be careful because
My thinly severed parts
Hardly resemble
What once was a heart

They may embed
Themselves within
And splinter you with
Broken passion

I may not give you all of me
But I can share my pieces
A bite of me is all you need
The bite that never ceases
Harrison W Oct 2014
When a piece of cloth is torn up
The pieces are separated
The cloth can be torn for many reasons
Abuse, being too frequently handled, neglect, or simply being worn out

When the cloth is torn the pieces drift
Multiple areas that can be difficult to find
Finding the pieces may take weeks, months, years
But the pieces will always be found and sown together again

When they are together though the pieces aren't the same
The pieces have gone to multiple areas and are shaped differently
They take different colors, shapes, sizes and textures
The cloth might not be the same for better or worse but at least the pieces are intact
I disagree.
Nigel Morgan May 2014
She opened the door of the gallery and there it was, there it lay, before her, nearly perfect: her exhibition. The opening was an hour or so away and there were, naturally, a few adjustments to make, but in essence it was right, and as she walked to the middle of the rectangular space (to survey the full effect ) she felt held by the quiet wonder of it all; that she had made all this and with ‘the quality control of nature’s accidents’. He’d written those words some years previous when a solo show was but a dream she would enter between sleep and wakefulness, when she would think of the west coast of Scotland and the poetry of its seashore, the infinite variety in the seashore strand between sand and sea. It was such natural accidents of form and transformation by nature’s hand that had guided her imagination into rightness and towards this exhibition.

At breakfast that morning she had come to the table dressed to greet her audience, and for the first time as a featured artist in a festival of some repute. She had felt the quiet joy of choosing the right combination of clothes to be the public person she had now become. He had loved the new dress she had bought to clothe her gallery persona. She had been conscious of his eyes following the lines this frock so generously drew around her body’s shape and form, the way the material fell across her *******, lay smoothly on her thighs.  It was a very grownup frock and with the jacket and scarf made her look purposeful, confident. His looking made such confidence possible, his admiration and what she could tell was that coming together of love and passion that, her being dressed in this formal way, so often evoked.

In the gallery she had worried over the lighting, climbed up the metal ladder with the fluffy green glove thoughtfully provided to enable those small adjustments of direction to be made on a hot spotlight. There were four large pieces flanking a corner that had embossed lines running across their surfaces, lines that needed oblique light to reveal the shadowing of this effect of swirls and marks of a retreating tide on sand.  Two smaller pieces needed rearranging; she’d placed them, late the evening before, in the wrong sequence. Poster boards were to be filled with her poster and put outside on the pavement by the gallery entrance. She opened the main door, a very green door with its top and bottom bolts and black-painted handle ring. The street outside was a welcoming mix of 18th and 19th C buildings, hardly one the same, the sort of three storey buildings that had simple plaques prominently placed into the brickwork from a distant past when proud builders would describe a structure’s use or ownership with a title and date. By ten o'clock this one-way street was lined with parked cars, but now there was little traffic. It was a quiet sunny morning in a market town.

‘Don’t mind the dog, ‘ he said. ‘He’s used to coming in here.’ It was a long-haired verging on the side of scruffy sort of dog, used to keeping its own counsel, probably used to being taken to exhibitions. ‘Just popping in,’ he said, this man who, and she couldn’t help noticing this, seemed to hold much in common with his dog; the long, but retreating on the forehead, hair, slightly scruffy from the want of a comb or a good brush (like his dog), he had dressed without much thought (because who dressed thoughtfully to walk a dog?), and that’s what he was doing, walking the dog and, seeing the Gallery open, thought he ought to look in.

Giving him her brightest smile, she embarked on performing the artist’s music of conversation, that score holding gentle melodies and welcoming harmonies. Although she had become quite practised in talking to her audience there was always the challenging inquiry that would catch her off guard.

‘Well, are you finished with the seashore now?’ said the man with the look-alike dog. For a moment a half dozen possible answers seemed possible. ‘Could one ever finish with something so extraordinary and various as that hinterland between land and sea?’ No, that was seemed a mite critical and clever. ‘Oh, I’ve hardly started’ was tempting, but rather smug and too confident by half. ‘I just love the seaside’ would probably do, as no one else was listening. ‘Merleau-Ponty says the complexity of the seashore is a metaphor in the search for self-identity’. She did wonder what he’d make of that, but finally decided on ‘It’s such a rich source of ideas and images I’m sure there’s a lot more I want to do with the subject.’

”It’s all the same colour”. She’d had that one a few times. ‘When I’m on the beach I’m fascinated as much by the texture and shape of what I see  and feel than the colour. I like the subtlety of the colours in the sand. I think my pieces – and she waved her hand towards what she had titled her Sand Marks pieces – show so many of the different shades of colours you find on the seashore.’

Those Sand Marks, a collection of variously dyed and marked two metre plus linen-lengths, dominated one wall of the gallery. They floated a few centimetres from the white wall, and when people moved past them the slight shadows cast by the linen lengths seemed to ripple in the human-made breeze. She could never look at them without thinking how their very accidental making – binding a linen cloth with inner placed objects and using the natural dye of tea – could create such absorbing results. She would follow with her gaze one of the linen-lengths from bottom to top (or top to bottom) and find herself walking on the wet sand of a Scottish beach, overwhelmed by the clear light and space with only the sea sound surrounding. He would tell her, had told her often, how moved, how affected he had been when he first saw them hung. To him, these ‘marks’ carried an essence of this aesthetic she now owned and for which had become recognised.

Even on this, her first day, she had been visited by a small number of admirers and supporters, some travelling distances to see her work with the aura of the original, a truer view than that possible on the back-lit screen of their computer monitors. Ladies who loved textiles, the containment and privacy to sew and stitch secured in their busy lives. These friendly and smiley women (the comfortable side of sixty) understood something of what she was doing here, and perhaps imagined themselves as thirty-somethings walking Scottish beaches free from children and the relentless list-making of house and home and occupation, able to create imaginary worlds of marks and folds, pleats and textures. Full of enthusiasm for the medium, what they perhaps didn’t have was the skill of seeing, a skill she had grown up with, had always owned to some degree: found, fostered, honed, developed into a second-nature activity of always looking.

There would be the occasional brief lull when the gallery was empty or close to empty, as though needing the space to come up for breath after being occupied by people and their movement. She would then walk slowly around the long well-lit room viewing her pieces and her arrangements of pieces from different angles. She would look at his poems placed antiphonally between her work, commissioned for her catalogue, her book of images of the sea shore paired with, incorporating even, her made pieces. She’d chosen a favoured few she’d felt caught the essence of being in the sea’s company, in the sand and shore’s domain. Like everything he did it had been undertaken with the utmost intensity of purpose. She saw him now in her mind’s eye with his notebook sitting against rocks, paddling in the great shallow pools, walking head down along the tide line, those bright days on a Scottish island and before, before on that ellipse of beach by the fishing station.

He would tease out an idea formed from a little motif of words, perhaps like the very music that was his private territory: here, alone, apart we are marked by the tide’s turn. Yes, we are marked by being solitary in such unconfining space, the marks at our feet become the lines, the mounts, the fingers, those interruptions, breaks and blockages found in the tridents, chains and crosses of the art of palmistry. We read the seashore as a psychic oracle reads the hand, hoping, as Kathleen Jamie so rightly says, for the marvellous. And marvellous it so often is.

Standing in this gallery was like being gathered about by the seashore. It was a short jump in the imagination’s miracle to hear the soft breathing of the sea, the wind caressing the face, the warmth of the afternoon sun on the freckled cheek.

See how those we love are transformed
when the sea is their only boundary

a figure stands before a sand bar
in a crescent of water left by the tide
an affecting geometry of solitude
. . .


These words had always stopped her in her perambulating tracks. She thought of her son, far distant on the beach, at rest for once, still, motionless within the confluence of the elements of the beach, at the epicentre of her gaze, all things flowing to and from his tiny, far-away figure.
Sometimes, we seem to lose sight of who we think that we are;
Something can happen, and it feels as if we are broken into pieces.

You forget who you are,
You forget why certain things in life had or have meaning to you,
You forget how to smile with the same enthusiasm as you once had,
You forget why you found happiness around certain people or in certain events,
You forget your reason for living.

Yet, you pick yourself back up, give yourself a pat on the back and carry on.

You remember how to smile,
You remember how to laugh,
You remember how to be yourself,
You remember how to live again, and go on with your life as if nothing had ever happened.

In each relapse and recovery, however, a small piece of yourself is lost in the process. You cannot feel it, but you can see it when you take a step back and reflect upon the past.

An old habit is replaced with a new fixation,
A new characteristic has taken over in your personality,
An old friend is no longer on speaking terms with you,
A plethora of old notes and keepsakes were destroyed in an erstwhile fit of rage,
A sweet memory turned sour by a recent event.

Each time we fall into this cycle, we lose a small piece of ourselves.
We change, sometimes for the better, but sometimes for the worse.
Some never leave the cycle, while others simply relive it one too many times.

Valuable people, places, memories, recollections, and thoughts lost to the past, pieces of you that you tried to keep but ended up losing in the process. You don't want to change, you don't want to leave these pieces behind.

But each time you break you forget to pick up the pieces that fall off of you, or you lose them. You can never fully heal and return to the way you were before you shattered into shards. Without certain fragments, you can never be put back together the same way.

Yet, people grow, people change. These missing pieces grow back and manifest in new and strange ways, and it isn't all anxiety and melancholy.

Eventually, we can learn to live, love, learn, act, and behave freely once more; we can use the new pieces of ourselves to change into something great, new, exiting. We can flourish in another form, because sometimes, we are meant to be something other than what we had originally started out to be.

Sometimes, we seem to lose sight of who we think that we are;
But then something can happen, and it feels as if we are made whole again.
Somehow I thought it was forever
I can see most of the faces, can't recall all of the names
But the pictures are right there, in my mind
Each and every one, of course, now they're just
Pieces of memory
Every curve of their lips, the feel, the taste
Smooth, pouty, moist,
Now just
Pieces of memory
First glances, eyes caught looking
Then blatantly staring
*******, invading, capturing
Now just
Pieces of memory
First dates, sometimes awkward, sometimes flawless
Sometimes it ended quickly, sometimes you caught the sunrise
Those were the best, when you watched the sunrise together
You never wanted it to end
Now they're just
Pieces of memory
Dancing, moving together, hand in hand, body in body
Colored lights, mirrors, more lights
Music you got caught up in
Whatever it was, you got lost in it
It seemed to just go on and on
And then
It's just
Pieces of memory
Every "I love you,"  all the hand holding
The deep looks into eyes, everything that was whispered
Promises spoken into a trusting ear
Plans that included forever
Carnivals, Parties, Movies
Vacations, Holidays together
Meals with families whose eyes smiled in approval
And of course there was the infamous
" Why don't you stay here tonight?"
Or the ever popular  "Let's go back to your place"
Then there was at least one or two or even three or four of these
What do you want for Christmas?
What would you like for your birthday?
Where are we doing for Thanksgiving this year?
And now, now I can see your face
But I can't recall your name
I can see the curve of your lips
But I don't remember what they taste like
I can still see the way you'd look at me, it always made me smile
I remember that first date but, I haven't danced in years
No carnivals, no movies, don't seem to have time for those things now
                         And that's a shame
Cause everyone needs a good carnival now and again
I guess that carnival is kind of like our love
Pops up out of nowhere and suddenly there it is
With all of it's sights and sounds and bells and whistles
Then you look up one day
And it's packed up and gone
And you don't even try to get it back because you just know
                It's gone
It seems so oddly out of place in life that
Now it's all
Just
Pieces of memory

Take heart -
There's always another carnival coming through  ;-
Molly Dec 2012
You don't make me happy. You are my happiness. The difference between the two is simple, but important: You see, if you only made me happy, just the thought of you would be enough. A picture of you would suffice to keep me content. But it isn't. You are my happiness, embodied. So when you're away, my happiness is gone as well. Thoughts are not enough. I don't feel complete when I'm not with you. I need you. All of you. I can only hope that you need me, too.  
I always thought of love like puzzle pieces. I know that metaphor's been done a hundred times over, but this is a little more specific. You see, everyone is built in a certain way. We are all pieces. Some people are whole pieces unto themselves - an entire picture, clear and beautiful. They don't need another puzzle piece. They're complete as they are, which is fine. Most people, however, are parts of a whole. They need other pieces to help them make sense, to see the whole picture. Some people have a lot of spaces and gaps, and it takes a lot of other puzzle pieces working together to keep them happy and to make them feel whole. Most people are halves. They are half of a picture, searching for the other half of themselves. However, these are puzzle pieces, meaning not every piece will fit with another. The pieces have to be the right size, the right shape, the right color. Puzzle pieces are complex and dynamic. Each one is special. Even if a piece is shaped really weird or has odd edges and angles, it fits perfectly with another piece somewhere. They just have to find each other. No one is wrong, and no one is unlovable. They just have to find the piece that complements them.
Somewhere, there is another puzzle piece out there that will help you make sense of yourself and see the whole picture of who you are. I always liked to think of it like that. I like to think that someday, someone as unique as I am will help me create a beautiful picture, a whole picture of myself, that we can both understand and be happy with. And I will do the same for them. Just like a puzzle.
I know. It's not a poem. It's prose. I'm sorry. But the sentiment is true all the same. The idea makes me happy to think about, and I wanted to write it down.
Shreya Inks Feb 2015
Going back to the time when I was five;
happy in the world of my own,
I was moms’s doll and dad’s princess;
had a sweet home in a small town.

Tearing pages for paper planes;
making paper boats for the rain,
that’s where my heaven was;
can I get those days back again.

I have grown big now, came far away;
and left my home behind,
gotta go back in time when I was a child;
all these are pieces of me, I gotta find.

Wanna go back to the time when dad;
bought me my favourite toys;
and took me to the festive fairs,
I wanna live again all those days.

My white teddy is lying in a corner;
turned pale and covered with dust,
I don’t have time to play with it;
all my toys got old and turned to rust.

Time sweeps as the pendulum swings;
it got me so big that I,
can’t live my childhood again;
all these are pieces of me, I pick and sigh.

Going back to the time when I was five;
happy in the world of my own,
I was moms’s doll and dad’s princess;
had a sweet home in a small town.

Tearing pages for paper planes;
making paper boats for the rain,
that’s where my heaven was;
can I get those days back again.

I have grown big now, came far away;
and left my home behind,
gotta go back in time when I was a child;
all these are pieces of me, I gotta find.

Wanna go back to the time when dad;
bought me my favourite toys;
and took me to the festive fairs,
I wanna live again all those days.

My white teddy is lying in a corner;
turned pale and covered with dust,
I don’t have time to play with it;
all my toys got old and turned to rust.

Time sweeps as the pendulum swings;
it got me so big that I,
can’t live my childhood again;
all these are pieces of me, I pick and sigh.

Going back to the time when I was five;
happy in the world of my own,
I was moms’s doll and dad’s princess;
had a sweet home in a small town.

Tearing pages for paper planes;
making paper boats for the rain,
that’s where my heaven was;
can I get those days back again.

I have grown big now, came far away;
and left my home behind,
gotta go back in time when I was a child;
all these are pieces of me, I gotta find.

Wanna go back to the time when dad;
bought me my favourite toys;
and took me to the festive fairs,
I wanna live again all those days.

My white teddy is lying in a corner;
turned pale and covered with dust,
I don’t have time to play with it;
all my toys got old and turned to rust.

Time sweeps as the pendulum swings;
it got me so big that I,
can’t live my childhood again;
all these are pieces of me, I pick and sigh.

© Shreya ♥
Elexer Sep 2016
I finally found someone
Willing to pick up my pieces
We helped each other
I picked up her pieces too
I showed her
Pointed my finger
"See? Those are mine"
She picked them up
And put them in her bag
She pointed her finger
"Those, and those, and those,
And those" she keeps pointing
"Those are mine, they're everywhere"
"I'm sorry, you don't have to
Pick them up, and really,
I don't know if you can"
I said "I can. Watch."
And i did.
I picked up almost all of her pieces
And put them in my bag
We weren't completing
Individual pictures
We were completing one
The pieces fit together
It was incredible
But i think my pieces
Were too heavy
One day, she decided
She didn't want to do that anymore
She took her bag,
And she gave it back to me
And then i almost ran over her
And now both of our pieces
Our collective pieces
That we had worked so hard
To find,
They were scattered again
And there are even more of them now
We'll never get them all picked up
Not apart
But she is satisfied
As long as she doesn't have
My pieces
I ruined everything
And now every time i look in my bag
I see pieces of hers
And i cry
I sob
And the tears are hot
And i'm cold
And the pain won't go away
For either of us
And now she's leaving
She's gone
And now we're both
Permanently
Infinitely
Forever
Broken
This was a really long one, but it's the best in my mind. The best, with the worst influence. I just want to fix her again
Dorothy A Mar 2015
I've got two pieces of wood and a few nails

You've got millions?
You've got gold?
You've got silver?
You've got diamonds?
You've got rubies?

I've just got two pieces of wood and a few nails
I've got what appears to be almost worthless
Pretty much a joke!

Two pieces of wood and a few nails..

You can't build me a house with it
You can't build me a ship with it
You can't build me bridge with it
You can't build me a car with it

What good is it?

Well, not so fast...

It's amazing what two pieces of old wood can do
Cross them together
Place a Man of sorrows upon it
And insert nails
For all the world to see

Two pieces of wood and a few nails....

Now I see their worth
LaNita Jul 2015
you see I'm a Pisces
and so pieces of me are
lost at sea.
bobbing in the oceans glee,
swimming with halves of
other Pisces. trying to balance things out.
made with the end of the other
in the mouth.
designed to serve
and move like water.

you see I'm a Pisces
and so parts of me are in you.
naturally, its the last Zodiac,
the finale before, reborn again.
Pieces of me sense the end is near,
the end of the separation, the twin
is to return.
she is to swim upstream and reunify
with other pieces of me, and
reassure me
I am ONE.

pieces of you infect my mind
replay constant stories, mostly lies.
the truths are overly
inspiring, and so I thrive.
I miss you.
I wade in the shallow end.
I know you are preparing for me… and so I wait.

I wait while I move, stillness
only during contemplation.
positive movement is my
dedication, my natural flow.
though my muscles tire too.
especially Pieces of me that
take upstream home,
slow and steady, they moan.
never too impressed by the journey
alone.
tunnel vision, only thinking of her own
time in the currents, just missing
the cycle of things.

yet only able to allow the cycle of things
to take their course,
as they naturally do.

and so pieces of me will wait for you.
I was broken years ago,
Shattered on the ground.
I looked for help to pick me up,
But no one was around.
As my pieces went overlooked,
They became so spread about
It was hard to find myself
So spread, my future was in doubt.
Some of me stayed in the middle
Crushed under sole and foot.
Other pieces hid in corners
Avoiding more pain or hurt.
The last of me escaped you see
It was pushed under the shelf.
Those pieces would never be seen again.
Causing me to be less of myself
I wished someone would clean me up
Put my pieces together again.
But here I laid under toe and heel.
Spreading further and further again.
My hope is one day to gather myself
To put together what's left to see.
It might take awhile to find them all
These shattered pieces of me.
And I pick up the pieces
and drop them again.
And the pieces don’t fit
and the pain comes again.

And I pick up the pieces
and drop them again.
And the pieces don’t fit
and the pain comes again.

And I pick up the pieces
and drop them again.
And the pieces don’t fit
and the pain comes again.

And darkness closes in
as the sun goes away.
And the cycle of loathing
destroys me again.
Pieces of me
thrown away
like trash
Never consulted
Never asked
The direct result
of another’s conviction
or more commonly seen
consequences
from blind ambition

Paranoid
The fix is in
But no invitation
for me,
former me
or forever me
and all of my imitations
beset by my
limitations

Forwardly I lean
step in between
lines upon lines
hidden;
can’t be seen
Falling ill
Now trapped
by its machine
And from my vein;
My blood I spill

A still surface
with sticky sheen
amber tones
from which
I glean
a reason
Thrilled
What it might mean
A hunger
that
can not be filled

Nothing but lies
giving me chills
A shell
with values
not instilled
Instead
it’s dread
Their words
I’m fed
"Nutrients"
to fill my head

My outer skin
Its layer
thin
Not to attacks
No single act
or prayer
could patch
and fill it in
A hole
that’s black
is my first sin

A game
in which
no way to win
and no ending
once it
begins
With opened eyes
commence to see
The dorsal fins
surrounding me

Head starts
to spin
What could have been?
It doesn't matter
in the end
because
there's nothing
here for me
A demon-like reality

Where what you seek
Placed at your feet
The icing; sweet
Choices; not three
Have cake or eat
One choice not two
But want to eat
and have it too

All efforts
to retrieve the treat;
An outcome that
ends in defeat
A princess swept
off of her feat
But this feature
princess;
a creature
Spirit of
a soulless seeker

Deceitful speaker
Flames;
he’ll eat ya
Offers pain
Can’t heal;
life drained
Then reaching out
to use
life-line
but with each ring
hope further wanes

An answered call
done just in time
The chills
running all down my spine
Stand tall
just like Douglas-fir pine
With racing thoughts
filling my mind
I will be saved
Free from it all
God must exist
No time to stall
In battle
warriors
may fall
but no man's ever left behind

Only to find
With said spent dime
A dynamite kind of answer
-
A type
that might
cause strife
Can't plan for
Needed answer
Plight
like cancer
New chance to live
Worldly romancer
On planet Earth
A tiny dancer

A romantic thought
to think
fight fought
Instead a sinking ship
just dropped
This life?
If could
an ‘OUT’
would opt
No more
can take
Just make
it stop
Written: April 17, 2018

All rights reserved.
Farzeen Rashid Jun 2020
When parents fight,
And tirelessly bicker,
It’s like I can hear the trumpet of doom,
And suddenly it’s the Day of Judgement.
Whilst the children are silently sitting,
In the room nearby,
Tears caress down my cheek.
I wonder curiously,
Why are we cursed,
To live through an endless civil war?
We are a family,
We are one,
But we breathe through an aura of grudge.
Why is my life battles upon battles?
Bad news upon bad news,
And a hundred questions answered with no.
And why am I the only one coping through this endless thunderstorm,
While the world around me is sunshine and eternal rainbows?
Nobody else seems to have a family like mine,
So why am I ill-fated?
I clearly never asked to live,
But somehow I’m here.
One is always right,
And one is always wrong.
I’m forced to choose sides,
But how can I choose sides,
When I don’t know who’s right or wrong?
I have to love both of you,
So how can I hate one of you?
I’m confused,
I keep wondering when it’ll be over,
And thinking soon it’ll get better.
I keep living in hopes that one day it will,
But I’m scared,
What if it never will?
The people with inferior pasts lead the most fruitful futures.
I’ve been waiting,
Patiently.
I can’t help but ask when will my present transition into my future?
And will I ever?
Everyone seems perfectly unbroken,
Except us.
Why aren’t we ideal,
Like the families on TV?
We’re encompassed by stainless aces,
All my cousins live without realizing,
One of their cousins is missing,
And one of their cousins is dying.
They will never realize.
I’m broken,
The children,
They’re broken!
When will you realize?
Even the once broken pieces are now shattered!
Nobody cares for this war we silently battle,
Nobody cares to offer assistance to help us fight,
Or even ask!
I have nobody but me to comfort myself,
And force myself to put an end to the desperate sobbing,
And look as if a hurricane never hit.
I’ve worn a mask everyday,
Even before Corona.
A smile will show them I’m okay,
A smile will show them I’m not weak,
A smile will show them who I’m not,
Because I don’t want to be a burden.
I am a burden,
But I can’t display it,
So I hide a whirlwind,
With a mask,
A smile.
March with your head,
Instead of your heart.
I can’t contain myself,
The storm is too strong,
And I’m obviously broken,
In a gazillion pieces,
Like broken glass lying on the kitchen floor.
You dropped a fragile glass on the floor,
Now I’m right in front of you,
Shattered.
Why can’t you see me?
It’s like you think I’m not riven,
Or do I blend in with the linoleum?
Why aren’t we fixing the broken pieces?
Why are we brushing them away?
And why would you throw them away too?
Broken pieces aren’t meant to be in the trash,
They’re meant to be fixed.
It’s not just my heart that’s in pieces in front of you,
It’s everything.
My brain’s broken,
I can’t think anymore.
My heart beating rhythm is missing,
It’s broken.
With your bottomless fighting,
Everything is broken.
Instead of abandoning the broken pieces,
Why can’t we fix them?
Dismissing the broken pieces don’t fix them,
Broken pieces remain broken,
Unless you fix them.
I’m broken,
But I continue my life even when I want to die,
And nobody knows.
Venn Oct 2018
(tw; family dysfunction)

I don't remember the day we first met.
I don't remember the time or the place
or what you were wearing
or what the very first thing you said to me was.

Honestly, it's difficult to imagine you
speaking to me at all, because, well,
that would require me not giving off an aura of distaste
to everyone in my general vicinity,
due to my extreme distrust of people in general.

Knowing me, we probably didn't even speak
until I grew used to seeing your face day after day,
became accustomed to your presence.

It's likely I knew your name before I said a word to you,
as I am an introvert with a side of social anxiety,
and it's always been a bit difficult for me to make friends.

Even after the first words we exchanged
transformed into our first conversation,
as pitiful of an excuse for one as it may have been,
there was nothing spectacularly romantic about it.

It was just passing remarks littered with wit,
sarcasm, and largely inappropriate humor.

 I don't remember when you became so important to me.

No matter how much I wrack my brain,
clawing meticulously through every memory I can reach
in my largely disorganized mind,
it's impossible for me to pinpoint that one moment,
the instant in time that changed everything.

What I do remember is the way every inch of your face
reddens when you laugh,
that contagious grin spreading across your cheeks
as if you had just heard the funniest thing in the world.

I remember how it feels when I'm the one causing that smile,
that rush of accomplishment I get when I can make you happy,
even for just a moment.

Those little things, however insignificant they may seem,
are stuck with me,
ingrained into my brain like the stain of spilled grape juice
on a once-pure white shirt,
imprinted into my soul like an unexpected fissure in a landscape.

They torture me, day and night,
and you would expect by the way I describe these feelings
that I want them to go away,
that I want to remove the stain you've made on my life,
stitch my landscape back together
and act as though you hadn’t cracked me open,
and maybe, once upon a time, I would have,
but now?
I never want them to go away.

As much as it pains me to feel this way,
and as much as I sometimes despise being so attached to you,
undeniably and irrevocably reliant on your existence in my world,
you've made me feel ways that, a few years ago,
I didn’t think were possible.

Not long ago, I wasn't even sure if being happy with myself
was possible,
much less feeling anything close to whatever this may be,
because I haven't quite figured it out yet.

All I know is that I care about you,
no matter how much or how little that may mean.
I care in ways that I probably shouldn't.

I want to protect you, keep you safe from harm,
and when I can't, it hurts.

It physically hurts me to see you endure any kind of suffering,
and yet I know you have to, every single day,
because you've told me so.

I've sewn together the shreds of you,
the real you, that you've shown me,
and as short and fleeting as those glimpses may have been,
I only want to see more.

I want to know who you really are, behind the mask,
behind the walls of the impenetrable stone fortress
that you've built for yourself.

You like caging your heart in your chest to protect it from harm,
I know that all too well,
but I want to put the pieces of you back together,
and even if I can't,
I will hold the shards of your soul with my bare hands
and keep you close to me.

No matter how long it takes,
no matter how painful it is,
no matter how much I bleed,
I'll do it for you.

 Most people sweep broken things into a dustpan
and toss them in a trash bag,
tying them up and leaving them on the side of the road
with all of the other discarded and damaged items
that once had a purpose,
but I'm not one of those people.

I keep every broken thing I've ever come across,
if I can hold on long enough,
whether it be pieces of someone else or pieces of myself.

With you, though, I think it's both.

You remind me of the way I used to be,
and the way I am now.

Maybe that's why I care so much.
Because I know what it's like to have a mask.

I understand how it feels to have to protect yourself
from your own family,
because even they find ways to hurt you,
even when they try not to,
even when they don't.

You know that, though, or at least,
you may have come to that conclusion,
because I've offered shreds of myself to you, too,
the suffering I've had to endure.

You know, but I want you to understand why,
why I've allowed you to see the pieces of me that
I rarely show anyone.

Because I understand what it's like, and at the end of the day,
we're not that different.

After all, we’re both in pieces.

We’ve lost so much of ourselves,
and even though we’ve tried to keep the fragments together,
losing them was inevitable for us.

There’s not enough left to restore us completely.

We would have to search to the ends of the Earth
to even come close to making ourselves whole again,
and even then, it wouldn’t be enough.

But maybe we don’t have to.

Maybe we only need to look right in front of us,
because together,
we have enough to make something extraordinary.
Jackie Aug 2014
And once again
I find myself holding onto your last words
As if it's a rope
If I let go
I plummet to the ground
My heart and soul would splatter all over the windows
I looked through them as if I was I looking at you
I pray that God took you in and gave you a home
The home that you searched for
The home that we talked about
The home that would welcome and accept you
The home that you would one day let me into
I tell myself that if I just close my eyes every night
One night will come when I do not open them
Which is why I still choose to go to sleep
Two months has passed and it doesn't even feel like a week
How am I supposed to live the rest of my life
I walk around this house wishing you were here to make it a home
These stairs creak as if they are missing pieces of their being
I creak inside because I'm missing pieces of my being
The pieces that had your name on them
The pieces that I wrapped up and specially gave to you
The pieces that held me together
The pieces that are no longer there
Ah man what am I even doing?
What am I even saying?
My heart and my brain are on opposite sides of the spectrum
My heart holds onto you like my last living breath
My brain pushes you away like you were never really mine
But you're dead
And I can't say that out loud
It pierces my ears and makes my bones shake
I want to say it out loud
If I do then it all becomes real
If I do then I know I will finally believe it
I just can't say it
That would mean giving up on you
ACT I: Collecting Jigsaw Puzzles

My life has been a series of jigsaw puzzles, the first as pretty a picture as you could wish to see.  It never occurred to anyone that anything could mar the image of a bonny baby in all her glorious honey-hued, gurgling perfection.  

They never found out who crept into the playroom and stole the first piece. It was only one little piece – the size of a sixpence on the baby’s left ankle.  Hardly noticeable. A pity though that such a pretty puzzle should be incomplete.

The next piece to vanish left a leaf-shaped hole in the baby’s back. Did someone accidentally knock over the board? Perhaps the lost pieces are on the floor or down the back of the sofa.

But if that is so, why could they find no trace?  Surely it had to be the work of a thief because it did not end there.

The next puzzle was a toddler.  How strange that the same pieces were missing here too.  Not only that, but a third and fourth piece had gone – the other ankle this time and now a tiny gap at one corner of the child’s mouth.  Why would anyone want to remove random pieces of the puzzle? And how did they do it without getting caught?

No one had any answers.

Successive puzzles depicting a panda-eyed schoolgirl, a shy adolescent, a carefully groomed young woman – all plundered by unseen hands – revealed more and more of the blank surface beneath and ever less of the subject herself.

One day I opened a new box and asked myself “Is this puzzle half here or half gone?”

There comes a point when a puzzle ceases to be a picture with gaps and becomes a blank space strewn with fragments like the excavated remnants of an ancient mosaic.

Would some archaeologist dig me up and fill in the blanks to show posterity what I once looked like?

The jigsaw of a woman in her 40s would have been quick to complete, since so few of the pieces actually connected. Scattered across the board, it was impossible to decide if they, or the space between them, were the real object of the exercise.

I suppose it all depends on how you look at it.

Over the course of 50 years my unplanned jigsaw collection progressed from Bonny-Baby to Can-You-Tell-What-It-Is-Yet? What would the next puzzle be called… The-Invisible-Woman perhaps?

If you think jigsaws are frustrating, try my next hobby…

ACT II: Painting by Numbers

Number 1 was the original skin tone, a light golden beige, my favourite pigment.


Number 2 was the colour of nettle rash, mottled and roughly textured.


This was closely followed by number 3, a stark white, applied almost symmetrically in random patterns, some clearly delineated, others splashed carelessly across the canvas like spilt milk. (No sense in crying over it. There is no cure. It won't **** you.)

There’s nothing quite like summer for bringing out the colours of a painting.  A hat and long sleeves were no match for the persistent sun and by the time the picture was finished, the numbered paints ranged from 1 to 20 with a different abstract brush stroke to go with each one. My canvas contained a tortoiseshell patchwork of shades from brilliant white to violet, golden ochre, burnt sienna, chestnut and scarlet.

And yet this was the height of my blue period.

I had to paint by numbers for 50 summers before I could enjoy my third (and final?) pastime…

ACT III: Joining the Dots

By sheer fluke, at the age of 51, I discovered the secret of the missing jigsaw puzzle pieces. They were there all along – just not visible to the naked eye.  


They had been starved into transparency but, as I began to feed them, atoms of them materialised like specks of golden ink on blotting paper.  Tiny dots like pixels on a grainy satellite image, jostling, overlapping and joining together until they looked something like the missing jigsaw pieces - if a little mottled with mildew.  

And gradually the mildew has faded - along with the sense of loss - to reveal glorious, even colour.

Of all the activities I ever found in the playroom of my life, the most cherished, the most miraculous, the most deeply longed-for and appreciated has been this game of Join the Dots - an unremarkable pastime, you may think (if you have never walked in my shoes), but one which has brought me on a return journey along a jigsaw road from
Almost-Invisible
via Can-You-Tell-What-It-Is-Yet?
past Half-Here-Or-Half-Gone?
by way of A-Pity-That-It’s-Incomplete
and finally – if not quite back to Bonny-Baby – then at least back home to a grateful woman of a certain age who can look in the mirror and smile to see her whole self.


   Vitiligo: A Play(room) in 3 Acts © August 2013 Vitiligo Protocol
I wrote this poem in the summer of 2013, about three and a half years after starting to re-pigment.  It might baffle some readers but I think that anyone who has had widespread vitiligo will recognise the feelings of consternation, powerlessness and loss of identity that accompany the progression of this condition.  But I hope that the relief and delight I have tried to convey at the return of my pigment will give others hope that this is not necessarily a one-way journey :)
Katrina Wendt Nov 2011
Stop showing
You love me
A little at a time.

Stop saying
You care
Bit by bit.

Stop keeping
Me here
For tiny pieces of time.

Because I need
All of you
Not piece by piece.

I love
All of you
Not just some parts of you.

So love all of me
All the way
All the time.

Or let all of me go
All at once
For good.
2011
AvengingPoet Sep 2014
Sixteen pieces of news take the zeitgeist
Belligerence surrounding the torture
As we have all become the taken poacher

But we are all the writers of fiction
As we write pages upon pages
All in time

As sixteen pieces of news take the zeitgeist

But it is impossible to rid this of our bones
As the wind carries all our echoes
And the sixteen pieces of news are in a vacuum

Ideological take over
Coming between us
As we rid ourselves in two sides of the zeitgeist

As sixteen pieces of news take the zeitgeist

Nothing can survive within a vacuum
Until we placate the conflict brought forward
By the captains who continue to steer us wrong

We are lead by a calamitous force
With the power of a race horse
As we die in the wind of our echoes

As sixteen pieces of news take the zeitgeist

— The End —