Dreams Like Shrapnel
My hands bleed from slivers of glass
The pieces stick me as I try to pick them up
It is a habit I have, to try and put the pieces together,
Which I do every so often when I feel I must.
They are easy to see, painted
With silver like the cleanest scalpel
And light blue like a surgeons gloves
But they explode like shrapnel
Every time I try to pick them up.
Should I ignore them?
Like they never mattered?
Or try again to fix the dreams I once had,
Before I grew ill and they shattered?