There is more to a broken mirror than a mere reflection,
there is more than sharp edges to a shard of glass.
There is more than sadness to a broken reflection,
and more than anger in his eyes when they flash. 

Hands shaking, breath breaking,
he gave up on life.
The mirror was broken,
and so was his heart.

His eyes lost their depth as the last blow was released.
As they cuffed him his smile ceased to exist.
The image for ever was burnt in his mind,
the image of the broken body she left behind.

The puddle of her blood oozed inside his head,
and darkness forever took over his heart,
as he tried- and yet failed- to keep from falling apart.
Madness took over,
once and for all,
as his fists unclenched to let the mirror piece fall.

And as it fell, so did he.
Now as lost in the shadows as a man can be.
The glass hit the ground,
it broke with a crash,
demanding attention when at his feet it came to land.

He looked down at the shards that were left of the mirror,
hoping that somehow they’d help him see clearer.
He looked at the mirror to see his reflection,
but saw instead a sight of pure devastation.

His face had gone whiter,
his eyes had turned darker,
as dead as the eyes of the girl he had killed.

He stepped on the mirror to lose his reflection,
and was dragged into prison,
not caring at all.

There is more than sadness to a broken reflection,
there is more than rage in a broken heart,
there’s a certain madness within perfection.
And perfection it was,
to watch the light fade away from her cheating grey eyes
as he pierced her stone heart
with a shard of broken glass. 

“Why do you write?” she asked me quietly
and after a sigh I answered
“I write because when I do anything is possible.
I write because writing is a manner of surviving.
When you write you make sure to be remembered
because through your words you create a legacy.
I write because a piece of writing no matter how small, can change the world.
I write because I am writing and writing is me.”

“I see life in the fire”,
she said to me and smiled;
“I see women as they dance,
I see men taking a chance;
I see happiness and love
I see the cheerfulness I’ve lost.”
At this I turned to stare at her
and saw that in her face,
small tracks of cleanliness were left
by all the tears she shed.
“But when the fire’s gone”,
she said
“then all that’s left is smoke,
and that is what I am;
I am gray and I am lonely,
I’m left to wonder,
I’m left alone,
I’m fading away slowly.”
At this she choked and said no more
for sobs had taken over
I knew she couldn’t find her voice,
and much less find her strength.
Compassion shook me then,
I could stare no more
and so I sat beside her…
I twisted her words to make them mine,
just hoping to see her smile, I said:
“Well I see life in smoke you know,
for it’s the proof that fire once was there.
I see strength and I see freedom
when smoke challenges the air.
I see hope as it lifts and flies off somewhere,
somewhere nothing can hurt it,
somewhere it can’t be caught;
and where it goes I do not know
but I can truthfully say
that wherever it is,
it will never fade away;
for it will be remembered by all those it touched.
So you see that is the key,
to live on forever.
The key is living, being free, and most importantly remembered.”
When I stopped talking I turned to see
a smile like no other and shining green eyes,
running backwards away from me.
To this day I can still say
that girl lived on forever,
for her sea green eyes dwell in my heart
and her smile kindles hope
that can take me through whatever.

How can teachers think they teach?
I feel like the more they teach, the less I know…

I don’t know how to say goodbye
to one I don’t want anymore.
How do I tell him that it’s gone?
The spark that once made me feel free
has turned into a prison, one with open doors;
but I can’t run away.
Although sometime I feel I need him,
I have come to think I don’t.
But what if I find I do
after I have let him go?

I don’t know what to say
to those friends left behind.
Friends who really no don’t care,
weather I live or die.
How can I communicate
when they don’t really care?
How can I make them see
how much they once meant to me?

I don’t know hoe to save the world
or make it a better place,
and I am tired of dreaming
about a perfect future…
One I’ll never get.

I don’t know what will happen next,
don’t know who I will be,
don’t know what my life’s purpose is,
don’t even know what all this means…

Now I’ve come to a dead end,
got nothing left to write;
and I’m left with no conclusion
to everything I wrote…

Now the only thing I know,
is that all I know or think I do,
is all worth nothing…
Not worth knowing at all….