I. She thinks she is broken, but even shattered glass can become fine art. She's a walking mosaic masterpiece, reflecting the beauty of her crimson red reality and she's far to beautiful a soul to be confined to just one shard of glass.
II. She can be all over the place like a mad hurricane. Ripping apart foundations; disrupting the roots and walls of what most couldn't aim high enough to see over. Self destructive? More like Self Reclamation. More like a flash of lightning that breaks through the desolate darkness. More like the seeds that scattered across the desert, drowned out to be what we now call the Rainforest.
III. She doesn't realize how it takes wreckage to rebuild. She's been told constantly otherwise. But wreckage my dear can hold so much more meaning than the finished product. How else would we decide that the product is finished, had it not started as a heap on he floor. How else would your lungs know the necessity of air had it not been submerged in water. How else; would you yearn for happiness if you hadn't once witnessed the beauty in pain.
IV. She has a wonderful way of surfing the axons that misfire across your senses. Understanding the parables that claw at your skull. She thought herself worthless; but she couldn't see the ray of colors that radiated around her. The grey's and white's mixed in with the golden flakes that poured out between the steel prison gates of her eyes.
V. I often wondered how Bluebirds and Rose's could corse through her knotted veins like an angel denying flight. Look close; you'll see the feather's that she keeps tucked... hidden Beneath the cold porous home of her shoulder blades. You'll see the pebbles she placed in her sneakers that weighted her to the ground. Hear the sweet melody's of her captivity.
VI. Like shattered glass, there's multiple reflections of her personality. Multiple glare's from the sun that cast a skew of colors on the walls. She brought shimmers to the dull on the daily, lighting up shadows in her wake. She can bring the full spectrum of colors to even the darkest of places.
VII. I hope she realizes the meaning she brings to the universe. The impact that follows the prints she leaves in the sand that even the tide couldn't wash away. The feather's that drift aimlessly through the salty breeze, landing at the ground of a child's shoes; filling their souls with wonder. The thread that fall's from her sleeves, patching the holes in our worn down sweaters. The tears that turn murky puddles into clear oceans. The beat of her dancing feet, that brings a new rhythm to a monotone world; bringing life to a dust filled shell of a place. I hope she knows that to someone, she's divine intervention disguised as what she would suggest as a disaster. But if she's a disaster; then think of all the advantageous things that she will create. Just as the mountains form when the earth Quakes; it takes rain to grow a garden.
