Shattered
whispering hands
Posts: 13,527
I am broken, worthless in my million pieces. Left for dead and dying, I seek to live. But I am all over the place. My heart is beating in tiny pieces, scattered and widespread. My soul, like wild Mercury, seeks out pieces of itself. My blood coagulates, in thick Pools of remembrance. Shimmering in the cold winds of life, reflecting back to me, what I once was. Who I was, a mighty force of human kind. Now just a shattered shell, a broken, useless pile of leftover life. If I were whole, I'd cry. But even my tears are wasted upon the ground. I don't remember breaking, I don't remember falling. I simply realized one day, that everything was scattered about, and that I now must pick up the pieces of my stupid life, and put them back together. Is it ok, if some things have already died? I tried CPR on my hope, but had to call it dead. I kicked my faith, but it didn't make a sound. I stabbed my spirit with a bony finger and all it did was cry. Can I survive without these things? Can I replace them?
An ethereal scream escapes what's left of a lung, and I stuff it back inside. Soon its mate sputters out a whimper, and I crawl to find it.
I take back some of my blood, and it is cold and unwilling to move. I find shards of my heart all over, and I begin to try, like a puzzle to piece it back together. It beats a little stronger with each piece reunited. My soul has found more of itself, and begins to revive my spirit. My faith has started to cough and moan, and flails in its desperate state. Then, on their way back to my broken, shattered body, my soul, and my spirit, pick up my faith, and carry it back home.
My blood has started to move now, and it calls itself to order. Slowly but surely, I am healing, piece by piece I am coming together again.
My faith is now off if life support, and breathing on its own. But I think that there's no hope for my hope. It is bloated, and decomposing. I begin to clean it up, gently washing out the wounds. My spirit kindly putting salve upon the deadly tears, and shattered seams. My soul says a prayer, and gently picks it up, coaxing it to live. Then a funny thing happens.
My hope begins to whimper. A soft whisper from hope, and my soul rejoices! My spirit runs to tell my faith that hope IS alive! And then I feel
The strength returning. I begin to feel the hurts of my wounds healing.
But, then I see my reflection in my tears of pain and joy. I am frightened. I look like I should have died! To be honest, I should have, but that which was once mighty, never falls meekly. I may have fallen, I may have been broken, left for dead and dying, but I survived. How can I show myself with all these disgusting scars? And then my will walks in. And it explains to me, I may be ugly to the sheltered, to the privileged, but to those who have been shattered as well, my scars are are beautiful. They are a work of art! They are the court heralds, proclaiming that I am not easily destroyed. Shouting out in praise, SHE LIVES!!
So when you see a broken person. Remember the will in them, that just like your own, picked up
The pieces of you that the world left shattered, and made them
Into a work of Art!
An ethereal scream escapes what's left of a lung, and I stuff it back inside. Soon its mate sputters out a whimper, and I crawl to find it.
I take back some of my blood, and it is cold and unwilling to move. I find shards of my heart all over, and I begin to try, like a puzzle to piece it back together. It beats a little stronger with each piece reunited. My soul has found more of itself, and begins to revive my spirit. My faith has started to cough and moan, and flails in its desperate state. Then, on their way back to my broken, shattered body, my soul, and my spirit, pick up my faith, and carry it back home.
My blood has started to move now, and it calls itself to order. Slowly but surely, I am healing, piece by piece I am coming together again.
My faith is now off if life support, and breathing on its own. But I think that there's no hope for my hope. It is bloated, and decomposing. I begin to clean it up, gently washing out the wounds. My spirit kindly putting salve upon the deadly tears, and shattered seams. My soul says a prayer, and gently picks it up, coaxing it to live. Then a funny thing happens.
My hope begins to whimper. A soft whisper from hope, and my soul rejoices! My spirit runs to tell my faith that hope IS alive! And then I feel
The strength returning. I begin to feel the hurts of my wounds healing.
But, then I see my reflection in my tears of pain and joy. I am frightened. I look like I should have died! To be honest, I should have, but that which was once mighty, never falls meekly. I may have fallen, I may have been broken, left for dead and dying, but I survived. How can I show myself with all these disgusting scars? And then my will walks in. And it explains to me, I may be ugly to the sheltered, to the privileged, but to those who have been shattered as well, my scars are are beautiful. They are a work of art! They are the court heralds, proclaiming that I am not easily destroyed. Shouting out in praise, SHE LIVES!!
So when you see a broken person. Remember the will in them, that just like your own, picked up
The pieces of you that the world left shattered, and made them
Into a work of Art!
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Comments
I have the feeling I'm such a pile of dust at the moment, to many times broken to remain shattered pieces. At the moment I don't have the strength to look for the remaining pieces, as small as they may be.
This dust is getting so tiered, of keeping it together when even the smallest blow of wind comes along, I get all rattled up and lose pieces of myself. Now a big storm is blowing and i don't know , how to get shelter, how to stay safe.
Maybe death is more peaceful, than this life. The will to live still remains, but the knowledge how is missing, at the moment. I've the feeling that i'm stuck in this deep pool of shit, and every effort to come out pulls me deeper in.
Your poem gave me the strength to just keep on going for an other day, thank you for that!
"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed".- Carl Jung.
"Art does not reproduce what we see; rather, it makes us see."- Paul Klee
Choose to see the truth. YOU ARE HERE FOR A REASON!! And we would be horribly saddened if we lost you. I pray things get better for you soon. Just let us know you are still here with us. And keep painting!
It would probable be more easy to pick out the memories we wanna hold on to, but in fairness, all the memories combined makes us who we are at the moment. It may not be pretty, it may not be nice. But it's what we have to deal with.
And it may create some images to share along the way, enjoy it!
"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed".- Carl Jung.
"Art does not reproduce what we see; rather, it makes us see."- Paul Klee
"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed".- Carl Jung.
"Art does not reproduce what we see; rather, it makes us see."- Paul Klee