Broken, you think,
To be fitted into something of a whole.
You lie around in a shattered mess
A bit of pink here and a burst of turquoise there
With cracks all over.
Who, if anyone at all,
Is ever going to need something so raw,
So unpolished and rough, with edges that can cut
And hurt and sometimes make bleed?
Why, if for anything at all,
Would someone pick these pieces up
And put them back together?
But for reasons, they will,
For your broken pieces are fragments
Fragments of color and wonder,
Of rough edges but softer hearts
Of nothing fake but raw passion.
For you are not simply splinters of something collapsed,
Lying around waiting to be cleared away.
You are a mosaic,
A shattered masterpiece.
For you are something broken,
But beautiful, nonetheless.