we are matches.

dull, lifeless, indentical.

until one day

we are struck,

set aflame~

and have

the potential

to

burn

the

entire

world

down

Humans are like snowflakes,

each one being comprised

of a million little things.

humans are like snowflakes,

so different and complex,

each one being defined

by our own structures

that make us all unique.

humans are like snowflakes,

so fragile and sensitive

to heat and touch.

it takes the smallest of things to warm us up inside,

to break down the coldness

that has trapped us for so long.

You rotting wood...

It hurt.

I got a love letter before.

Yes...someone loved the sociopath.

I showed it to you...

To which jealousy consumed you,

And you took the letter, ripping it up,

And stepping on it.

Yelling at me;

“YOU REALLY THINK ANYONE WOULD EVER WRITE THIS TO YOU!???”

It stung.

[Their name] you hurt me.

I really believed that I might mean something to someone...

But you were right.

The letter turned out to be a prank.

But for that...how could I EVER forgive this rotting piece of wood you became???

You and me.

Me and you.

We fought.

When we were both alone...

We fought.

You attacked my legs, trying to pull me to the ground.

I came at your eyes, and left a huge scar on your forehead.

You rotting piece of wood...

You hurt her.

And she now hurt you.

It still echoes in her mind every night.

“You really think anyone would ever write this to you!!???”

And that’s why I hate love.

This rotting piece of wood hurt me,

And then we fought.

Physically fought.

Well...

It hurt.

Life hurts.

When you have no one.

But...

At least they know to never do such a thing to me again.

The fight we had was worth it.

Yeah, you hurt my knees.

But your words hurt me more...

And scarred me a lot longer than I wanted.

She was like a teacup, so fragile as to break at any moment, yes, and so small that she could almost fit in one hand. Her life wobbled on the edge of a table, in the palm of a plate chipped by age and neglect. A sweet perfume drifted from the porcelain, calling to memory the happiness of youth. She was like a stunning teacup, offering a soothing restorative for the body and mind, and holding inside a potent poison built up over years of cruelty and sin. That teacup she stole from her lover's pride, that crowning wealth, stained her life with her horrid dealings, may they never be forgotten.

i am made like a doll made of china,

i appear as perfection to the eye,

pretty face,

perfect complexion,

angelic like features,

but eventually over time people grow tired of me,

they find something better to play around with,

time after time i am given away,

i never knew of a place called home,

i could never speak, never move,

i just sat as others used me time after time for their own pleasure,

but what do i get?

i am thrown into a dusty box,

and tossed away,

and slowly but surely i shatter,

piece by piece,

and owner by owner,

i lose myself when i am unwanted by the ones that were supposed to love me,

and all that’s left are the shards on the ground,

in a million different places,

all little pieces of me,

that were broken,

by a million different men

-is love too much to ask for?

it has two hands , though small,

it has hair, though fake,

it has a tongue, though better silent,

it has thoughts, though only of itself,

it has offspring- sad hybrids,

it lays gifts for loyals,

their noses unaffected by the brown,

it has a network, a web of intertwinning caregivers,

eyes flash with gold or red,

it likes golfing,

claims it’s a sport,

it likes cheering crowds,

or so the boos sound to him,

it wrote a book of ‘art’,

though he can hardly type,

it brought us so much hate ,

yet, even his worst,

was mere negligance,

it is an abomination,

the echo of all the backward shackles,

it will not make anything great,

not even itself,

it will not bring relief,

it is a 4-year constipation,

but a kind “out!” can be our pill.

Jim was a pot

No he was!

All he did was

Support things

Hold things

His wife

His children

And as he held them

He saw them change

They grew

And sprouted a flower

And he still held them

But was proud

Proud to hold up

A rose

You see that photo frame back there, leaning on the wall?

The one that's gathering dust?

That's me.

The photo inside has already yellowed, be it from the years gone by or just plain carelessness. The photo frame was supposed to protect it. Protect the memories from being forgotten.

But it couldn't. And neither could I.

Now in this time and place, all I have left are impressions, what could have been, the what ifs.

But still, it is better than nothing.

As while the frame could not protect the picture, it protected the all the things I had left.

She was a treasured family heirloom, put upon a high pedastool and treated as fragile. In a few ways she was like an heirloom, she was the oldest in their family and was expected to carry on the bloodline however, every time the kids ran up and down the hallway or the parents blasted bass heavy music while they talked about creating their own clay pots, it rattled her. The clay heirloom had cracks in it from carrying so much weight and being dropped all those years for you see how can the heirloom continue the bloodline if she could not create a clay pot herself? Many times she had tried and failed and each time she was met with despair, soon they will find out and whether or not they will accept this cracked clay pot as it is or reject her will decide if it will break.