I wish I could write down my soul on this page
drenching it with myself as if with a piture of ice water
making the lines smear and run together
and as a torn and soggy piece of paper
it will become the most beautiful thing imaginable
but it's beauty will be a sad one
for the soul is only a glass mirror
reflecting that which we think
which we feel
which we are
imperfect lines blurry through the tears
I cry not for myself
I cry for the lonely, the broken, the abused
though my tears make no mark
excuses are just lies hidden inside a wool coat
how much is happiness worth?
and would it change if it belonged to someone else?
now is the time to ask
because in the end
we are all just reflections
