Broken Glass

There are days where I feel like broken glass,

Where I glisten and gleam in the soft, green grass,

And anyone who dares to tread,

On my resting place is sure to dread, 

The pain of a wound that is hot like ice,

And the soul who recieves it will not tread twice.

 

How ugly a shattered dish can be,

A useless, biting thing like me,

Who injures those to come too near,

The ones who are drawn by my gleaming veneer.

 

I must wait for someone to hold me just right,

Who can see how I shimmer in the the bright morning light,

Who sees me not as a thing of no value,

And will strive to turn me into something new.

 

Yes, I am broken beyone all repair,

And those who come close should surely beware,

But, like sculptures, mosaics are works of art,

Of something beautiful, I will be a part.

This poem is about: 
Me

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