glass

my life, a piece of glass, shatters and i don't cry

not when the blood smears across my face

not when i take the shards out of my skin with a sharp blade

not when it cuts again and again,

my flesh teared until scars cover up the beads of crimson

but i cry over a bad grade

a failed game

a lost tournament

a small mistake.

why is it that i care nothing of my heart,

but everything of my mind?

i am a mastermind

but never a masterpiece.

isn’t it sick,

how i have let the world’s wine

make me drunk.