If I were an object, i would be glass,
Frail and transparent, with no stance or class;
Evident to people and the mass,
No colour or texture, and something you’d walk past.
You could add layers and I’d still be plain,
This would happen even with a rose tinted stain;
I could be your window or door but never your home,
After all, a chair could never be a throne.
If you aimed a stone at me, I’d break,
Nothing to worry, after all; I had nothing at stake,
My pieces cause more harm that I ever could, on the whole,
I’m picked up quickly; after all; I’m neither cotton nor charcoal.
They replace my broken glass shards with a new wooden slab,
It has everything that I always lacked,
Strength, turgidity, stability,
It wasn’t opaque, it hid the transparency.
My broken self was discarded away,
In a torn plastic bag, I lay;
Cutting through everyone who picked me up,
They bleed out much with my one little touch.
I’m a danger and a hazard but not shattered,
If we think of it, would it even matter?
Nonetheless I was always put up to be destroyed,
Clear in sight but with an abyss of a void.
I reflect sunlight because I cannot deflect my anger,
From the get go, I should’ve known, this wouldn’t get any better;
I was glass, temporary and nothing permanent,
See through, invalid and indeterminant.
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