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W Dec 2013
Almost like a mirror to
Look at you. A sort of Alice on the other side
Of the looking glass.
You are a reflection I never thought might exist.
But there are flaws spiderwebbing cracks into the glass,
The picture so minutely cracked here and
There that it might all just
Fall out of the frame.

Words, picked like highhanging fruit,
Stack and
Form the
Edges of your
Mind--
brilliant walls of Buckingham but also the boxes of fruit
(high hanging like the words) floating down congolese waters
and into the heart

--of Darkness? only kurtz knows
but does it matter? still Grand as ever--

They're words I see in myself on my side
And music from Mechanicsburg Anchorage Dar es Salaam
sings down the same Congo we share

But the only cracks I see are with me.
Your words and wit are the envoys,
Celebrated diplomats from the Heart that lies
downriver.
eyes flash and the Fruit is bountiful and
Hail the heart (wherever whatever it is down the River).

The words are strong as the man who sent them
(somewhere in the Heart)
Such strength to speak and shout
Respect commandeddemanded in the fruit

I often wonder if I have it.
And each time I know I don't
Another crack is born.

the tally man sends his beautiful fruit--
strong as everforever
To the world, smileonface and gleamineye--

and you're him
on the other side
at the Heart.
Nina Jun 2015
when god closes a door, he opens a window, ma used to say. it was really me, chubby, scared hands pushing them closed, slamming. shuddering hinges, cracks spiderwebbing to the ceiling. not to protect; she saw growing from the seed she planted--- born bad, fruit bruised on the branch.  instead of first words and steps, it was first irrationalities, the turn of the cycle that would consume us both. but she couldn’t throw me out. i may be the brown spot on the peach, but i’m still sweet. my juice will run down your chin when you bite into me. i will linger, sticky between your fingers. you could throw out the pit. but she planted me, and a crooked tree grew.
LycanTheThrope Aug 2015
I'm sitting here
Staring at the floor
The tears streaming down my face
Sobs overtaking my lungs and racketing throughout my chest
It already hurts enough
Maybe it's the bruises on my ribs,
Or my demented mind that's stuck on depression
Or maybe the fact that I've been trying to pick up these pieces
And fit then together
It always falls apart
I try so hard
Taking these shards of glass
Attempting to make a perfect reflection
I've cut myself again
Sometimes all I do is stare at my wrists
Watching the blood flow over
Spilling
My life is ebbing away
And with every weakening heartbeat
All I can think about
Is how I've lost

Somehow
I sit up
I don't know why I try anymore,
But I do
I wipe the blood off of the pieces
And puzzle it back together
Finally, it holds a relfection
When I get past the cracks spiderwebbing across the pane,
The red edges pointed out at my skin,
And when my eyes adjust to the darkness
All I see is a broken figure staring back at me.

That's nothing to hang on the wall.
Not at all fabricated or intricate.
What I feel at the moment.
Amanda Kay Burke Jul 2018
Fragments of a broken mirror
Scattered far, I will never fully be found
It is not just my heart that is breaking
Every part of me in pieces on the ground

Reality crashes on my shoulders
I cannot escape the massive weight
The final collapse was inevitable
Difficult to accept my fate

My love strewn, little shards my arms
Unprepared for my feelings to fall apart
I'm not sure how much of me is left
All I know is throbbing emptiness tugging my sore heart

Have been watching cracks deepen for a long time
Felt each tragedy spiderwebbing through me
Sorrow working grooves over the years
Pain has finally shattered me completely
Finally starting to  catch up to posting all the poems ive written... i am impressed with how many I have!
KJ Jan 2018
I am staring at the cracked glass
Constantly fracturing
It is spiderwebbing out
It just keeps on cracking

We tried to fix it
With glue and tape
Nothing has worked
I think we might be too late

The glass cracks some more
You can hardly see through it
It’s a disaster waiting to happen
I can no longer ignore this

How do we continue
When we can no longer see
The transparency is gone
All I feel is uneasy

The glass finally shatters
Leaving fragments all over the floor
It gets imbedded into our skin
Leaving scars as reminders

Theres nothing left to fix
A million pieces surround us
If you hadn’t ruined it with your fist
We wouldn’t be left with this irreparable mess
For MA
Specs Aug 2018
Sometimes the words you say out of love hurt.
Stabbing, cutting words that, underneath their sounds,
Tell me that you don't think I can.
And that is precisely the reason why you only know my facade.

But now that facade is breaking.
Cracks spiderwebbing throughout my arms,
Tears ripping away from my legs,
Chunks missing from my chest, and
If you look closely, you can see the dark empty inside
Through the shattered windows of my eyes.

Soon the facade will crumble away
And you won't know the person in front of you.
Emma Feb 2021
Behind six feet of glass,
You watch the sharks swim,
And know that you would be left in ribbons by them.
But the water is impossible blue,
And you’ve forgotten wetness.
Your fingers tap—
Tap—
On the glass, considering.
For a moment,
You see cracks spiderwebbing.
For a moment,
You imagine the glass breaking, water rushing out.
You can see the sharks lying on the floor,
Gills fluttering futilely, bodies struggling under the weight of themselves,
While your clothes lie heavy against your slick skin,
Soaked.
But you think of their eyes, unblinking, uncomprehending,
Pained.
So you stay behind six feet of glass,
Forgetting what pain feels like,
Along with everything else.
Preston Taylor Mar 2018
Transparent as a glass vase
Gross lacking of substance
Clear at a glance
Murky liquid spills forth
Frothing in anger
Broken thoughts tumble about
Stirred by currents of regret
Left to long
Going to rot
Spiderwebbing cracks race across the face
Bland narcissism no longer enough
The vase shatters and is ground away into dust
Michelle Nov 28
I heard you’ve taken up honesty
like it’s a new hobby.
Quaint, like gardening or oil painting.
How bold, to dabble in virtue
only when the stakes are gone.

You’ll keep polishing that glass house,
convincing yourself it gleams with clarity,
never noticing the cracks spiderwebbing beneath.
One day, when it all comes crashing down,
you’ll call it a masterpiece
and swear the rubble was art.

— The End —