HOW SHATTERED IS SHATTERED?

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It sounded ghastly as the humongous thunderstorms on a very bad day,

Disturbing as the sounds of brass knuckles falling one by one on the floor.

Sounds I wish I was not able to perceive but will aways be terrifying as the truth.

 

It is broken, only that it did not look hurt but it could hurt, when you stomp on its pieces.

It hurt that nobody dared to lend a hand, a time, and an energy to pick it.

It is crushed enough, as fine as the lies untold that you could never ever collect at all.

 

But no matter how vivid my descriptions could be,

You won’t mind, you won’t care, you don’t know a thing.

And I wonder why, considering that you saw me torn when you left.

 

In the long process, it’s only me who could hear, see and feel how shattered is shattered.

 

 

 

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