We are plastic bags.
Use once, throw away.
Disposable. Replaceable.
Contain the mess, throw away.
We are empty soup cans.
Broken seals, empty containers.
Expired. Un-returnable.
Broken promises, empty words.
We are dry skeletons.
Sticks and stones and the tests of time.
Crumbling. Disintegrating.
They do break our bones.
We are stone castles.
We reinforce our walls.
Pummeling. Pounding.
We watch our walls crumble.
We are third wheels.
Stumbling along, behind.
Unneeded. Extra.
Sometimes left behind.
We are old, dusty books.
Never read, never acknowledged.
Forgotten. Intriguing.
Ever fascinating, never discovered.
We are threadbare aprons.
Once loved, filled with stains.
Discarded. Patchy.
Still loved, filled with memories.
We are peeling wallpaper.
One day, in fashion.
Chosen. Dismissed.
The next day, out.
We are rechargeable batteries.
Life and death comes and goes.
Resilient. Energetic.
Happiness and depression and strength.
We are bags of microwaveable popcorn.
There are the lows and the highs.
Burnt. Buttery.
But eaten nonetheless
We are sandcastles.
Knocked to the ground.
Devastated. Restored.
Built up again.
We are people.
Waging wars against ourselves.
Defective. Beautiful.
Fathers and brothers and sisters and mothers.
We are different.
And yet, the same.
Individual. Similar.
Perhaps we are human.
YOU ARE READING
Of Humans and Kings
Poetry"With her firestorm eyes and her watery soul It dripped away in pieces, no longer whole" A collection.
