Ill-fitted Parts
From a broken-hearted daughter
I am made
Of
Broken parts.
Makers,
Who fixed a caldron
Out of sin ,
Grabbed the nearest pile
Of ill-fitted parts .
Rusty,
Crusty ,
Dusty parts ,
To show
To prove
They could
They would
They should.
The clock ticking
An audience looking
They made me
Quickly, thoughtlessly, mindlessly
Only to win
The cheers
The applause,
But it caused
Me to be
Made of
Broken parts.
Now damaged and defective,
I am a walking plague infection.
Starved for affection,
For some kind of connection
To bridge
The abyss
That reminds me
Of my
Broken parts .
About the Creator
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Perfect Little Pirate
The rough, sodden rope bit into her fingers as she swung over the roiling water far below. Reaching out with the toe of her boot, she managed to catch hold of the rain-soaked railing of the ship- and promptly slipped. Throwing herself forward, she landed hard on the deck, slamming her elbows against the wood planks. The sharp yelp of pain quickly bubbled into a laugh, and she rolled onto her back, laughing up at the gray sky as a torrent of rain washed away the soot covering her skin.
By M. A. Mehan 3 days ago in Fiction
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