They call them shattered,
the glass hearts and wilted wings—
but I have seen
the beauty of broken things.
A crack in porcelain
lets the light dance through,
and scars on skin
show the battles we outgrew.
A mirror may fracture,
but still reflects truth,
and wilted petals
once held the scent of youth.
A voice that trembles
still dares to sing,
and trembling hands
still hold everything.
Why fear the cracks
when gold can fill the seams?
Why run from pain
when it shapes our dreams?
So don’t hide your pieces,
your edges, your stings—
there is quiet grace
in broken things...
the glass hearts and wilted wings—
but I have seen
the beauty of broken things.
A crack in porcelain
lets the light dance through,
and scars on skin
show the battles we outgrew.
A mirror may fracture,
but still reflects truth,
and wilted petals
once held the scent of youth.
A voice that trembles
still dares to sing,
and trembling hands
still hold everything.
Why fear the cracks
when gold can fill the seams?
Why run from pain
when it shapes our dreams?
So don’t hide your pieces,
your edges, your stings—
there is quiet grace
in broken things...
