You hold a vase in your hands,
delicate, breakable.
And you squeeze it, just to see
how much pressure it can withstand.
Cracks form along it, but you don't notice.
Squeezer harder and harder until
finally, the shards of glass spray all over the floor.
You realize what you've done,
and offer to glue it back together.
But you don't know,
That I would rather leave it,
broken and remember it as it was,
then to med it and see the broken places
as long as I live.
You buy a new one,
but it's meaning is lost,
there's no memory to the new one,
nothing to fill it with,
not even the same design,
But yet, I live, on and on.
Do you realize yet?
The broken shards of glass are pieces of my heart.
**I know the format is a little funky, but just bear with me. This isn't supposed to ryhme, nor is it supposed to look like a poem at all...It's like a mix between a story and a poem.
