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?

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