Creation

I broke,

a long time ago.

Like a shattered vase,

I kept trying to

patch things up.

Superglued myself together

With the promise that

It won’t be for long -

That it’ll be over soon.

Piece after piece

Kept crumbling away,

and I kept patching away.

It’s been too long;

can’t even remember

The day I stopped caring

If the pieces matched,

as long as I stood upright.

The false facade fabricated

Of fake fucks I furiously

Tried to give.

The vase -

A vessel made of

Broken promises

To myself.

Patches unfit to stitch

Those smithereens,

Like plasters unfit

For cancer.

Shards destined to crumble,

Strewn onto the ground,

Turned into rubble and sand.

I missed the rain,

The sun - unbearable.

Drying up the rubble

Of my soul.

Dust to dust -

Nothing left.

Tears of truth

Hitting hard.

Thunder rolling in,

Pouring rain

Covering everything.

The smell of Petrichor,

I feel it: Water

Mixing the sands

of my soul.

And so, I found myself

holding clay.

Clay meant for creation.