still every afternoon, i get home and I realise that everything is broken in someway in this world.
old toys become new. that plate has a chip in it now. all things 'new' were never always like that.
coming to terms with yourself is one of the hardest things you can ever face in life.
you never wish to realise you are broken.
you hide away all
the little thoughts,
the skeletons,
the broken
and damaged bits,
into the cupboard you built for them.
sometimes the cupboard opens.
you try to swim
and you struggle
to break free.
drowning within yourself is the worst.
but eventually you manage to shove the broken bits back into the cupboard, and then you are able to feel 'free' for a bit.
only a bit.
///
the destroyers believe everything is okay until they are made to think differently about their insecurities and broken parts.
we are a broken machine.
YOU ARE READING
gone too far
Poesíasimple. sharp. and hopefully memorable. poetry for the mad. join us. {lowercase intended } ------------------------------ bec g. crawley © 2019
