Glass people
Have
Always been
So beautiful
To me;
Their faceted skin
And
Gemlike eyes
As stunning
As a stained glass
Window.
And maybe
That's exactly
What they are,
Stained
From all
Of the lies
They've told themselves.
A life
Coloured
By plastic.
And so
They paint themselves
To be plastic
As well,
Scared
Of the stained glass
Of their soul,
Unaware
Of their immense beauty
Knowing only
Of their flaws.
They
Slather
Paint
Onto themselves
In an effort
To hide
Their true colours,
To be
"Normal,"
Afraid
Of what
They perceive
As their
Broken nature
In need
Of fixing.
But really?
They are amazing
Exactly as they are,
Stained
In the brilliance
Of who they are,
Built
From the colours
Of their experiences
And the words
That others
Had given them.
And I would give anything
To be made
Of stained glass
Rather than bones
And ash,
But I know
That glass people
Would give
As much
To be
Something else
So here's
What I propose:
What if
We learn to love
Exactly who we are?
What if
We taught
Glass people
That their stains
Colour
The brilliant light
Of their soul?
What if
We taught
Skeletons
That the ivy
Of their soul
Hides
A secret garden
For only the luckiest
To find?
We would live in a world
Of beauty.
Free from
Perfect
Plastic
Buildings
And perfect
Plastic
People.
But for now?
We live
I'm a world
Made of plastic
Populated
By plastic people
And
Skeletons
And
Glass people
Who hide
Behind
Plastic smiles
So
They never see
The light
Of their beauty.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryA collection of some of the poems I've written. Some of the poems are in fact set in the same world, but not all of them have anything to do with each other. Read a few to find out if you like them, I promise they're pretty short. :)
