broken but not in pieces

to be stepped on

to be torn

to be a part of it

and go down swinging

to stand independently

on your own two feet

and wait for that illusive

nothing to take control of your

life and bend you in ways you

never thought your body could contort

to be

to search

with every last ounce of energy

to want it so bad that

it awakens you from the deepest dreams

to have and to hold,

but not with the type of connection

you first anticipated

to give

and

to take

and to be

 a part of something

tangible,

something that lasts

longer than a single night

to not have to work

for every god damned little thing

that makes itself known

to shed light upon yourself

and become more than what

you wanted

to gain footing

to be resolute

to try and to fail only

to try again

to watch the ways of the world

and to know there's not a fucking thing

you can do about it

to break the glass

and to pick up the pieces,

hoping they'll all fit back together again

to grip the pillow and scream the nonsense

deep into the fabric, releasing the anger

until you're spent and crying

to see the pictures of the ones you've

lost and to feel the numbness because

there's nothing you can do for them now.

you can't go back

and you're always moving forward

and the ride won't slow down long enough

for you to see what you're missing

to see the others like you

and hope they get a better turn,

to hope they find what they're looking for

to land on your feet and walk away

even though you're bruised

but not quite beaten