I Break the Shard

I sit on the edge of a broken wooden chair
in the middle of a world where nothing's right or fair.

I write about my broken heart
with a broken pencil, I'm writing broken art,
because the meaning is so deep and thoughtful,
but no one can see it, because they have broken eyes
speaking to a broken imagination.

I break a shard off my pencil
to feed my broken, oppressed soul.

I hate the broken sense of reality
animating from my broken, splintered pencil.
It traps me in sadness, keeps me from being free.

I cry, you cry, children cry today,
"Help me, save me," they all plead to me.
"Don't go to hell," my soul wants to say,
I open the door,
and through it wings soar,
the freedom to want,
to freedom to give,
the freedom to be captured
for just a little more.