Life is a glass. Many say to live life to the fullest, but there are limits. Whether intellectual, physical, psychological...it could even be summed into one word: genetics. No one is fully alive, but one may be as alive as they will ever be. There may come a time when one feels fully alive, but it does not last. Life is a glass, but not full in shape. In fact, it is broken.
Children...so full of life, energy, curiosity...their glass is in better shape, but still not whole. The glass becomes more broken over time, sometimes fixed a bit, but never entirely. In the end, the glass is completely damaged from time, some more than others. Then a new, but whole glass, may be given; or one is left walking on the pieces. It all depends on how well the first glass was treated and used.
YOU ARE READING
Broken
PoetryI wrote the first two, and possibly only two, parts to "Broken" months ago. As I write some other stories I notice 'The World' and 'The People' fits in or sort of relates so I add the parts in somewhere. Here are the pieces alone. Here is the origin...
