GlassI always laugh when you refer to me as glass.Not just because of the way you say it,(glass-as-in-gas).Or because I know it's a crack at my fragility.Glass is pure.I am like granite -my body nullified from too many clashing traits.Glass is transparent.I am like clay -illegible from all the plastered smiles.Glass is unyielding.I am like chalk -easily broken and scuffed away by meagre things.Glass is hung up on walls and in great cathedrals,tinted for enhancement, but only ever painted on by fools.I am hidden behind keypads and camera lenses,coated in a thick paste of deceptiveness.No, my love,I was never glass. (Despite
Paradise.My arms ache from digging throughrough and ruin, in search ofparadise.I saw it in a whispered dream,there, nothing hurt;we were unspoken.With winter came warmth and summer snow,And nothing died, just ceased towalk with mein paradise.
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