I am broken.
A porcelain plate
Cracked.
Shattered.
Scarred.
With only a line of beauty till you get to my break.
You feel my rough edges and my broken part.
You try to pick up the pieces but only get hurt by the glass shards.
Cutting you, hurting you.
I don't mean to but I'm broken
It's what I am.
A record on repeat.
Repeating the same phrase.
The hook
The hook
The hook
The hook
Just trying to assure myself of my insecurities
To put myself right back on the shelves
Believing to be fixed
But hope dies on that cold dark shelf.
Loneliness
Loneliness
Loneliness
Loneliness comes like a shadow in the night.
Quick and fast
Waiting for you to fall
Sinking into its trap
it's unfortunate sinister plan.
But it all started because I was broken.
And some people say no ones broken, and some say everyone is.
But the only ones who say they are,
Are the ones who feel like they're only an imperfect soul in a "perfect" world.
So my cracked plate sits on that cold shelf waiting to be fixed but never will be.
I am just a memory,
my full shape is just a memory.
My beautiful blue stripped paint is just a memory .
We all are just a memory, because we are all are just porcelain plates.
YOU ARE READING
Heart of Moss
PuisiThis is a book of my everyday life and what I feel. This is my life and I would love for you to live through it with me. It's from rants, to poetry, to just plain writing. It's bout whatever sucks ass or whatever is unbelievably awesome and whatever...
