Can you write one about hope and fear? And are you new? If you are, there's a thread  for new CBs. From what I can tell, youre really good at poatry.

edited version of "fragmentation"!

fragmentation

i think i’m fragile—

“dark” wasn’t always dark— 

in the beginning, i found myself there

it was eden’s garden in a nutshell, 

but it soon collapsed 

(and to this day i wonder 

what the apple was) 

“dark” slowly stretches into dark— 

just like how hours stretched into eternities 

and shards of glass and ice 

grew dangerously close to my heart 

“dark” finally becomes dark— 

(as the realization finally sets in) 

how the shards of glass and ice 

pierced through my heart, 

snapped the strings, 

and i was rendered a puppet once more and 

the warm blood runs cold down my chest, 

dripping into puddles that pool at my side, 

tainting the pristine white flowers that stand so valiantly at my side, 

dripping up into the bloody sun 

that shines so brightly, taunting me, 

the remnants of a smile carved into it's moving mouth, 

"do you still dream of that utopia? 

the one where every day, it is bright? 

it is bright here, is it not?" 

yes, yes, it is but 

in a terrifying way 

as if i am stuck in a nightmare, 

(sleep paralysis echoes through my mind) 

unable to get out, 

as if i am wearing those eclipse glasses 

the ones i wore to watch the partial eclipse 

just a few months ago, and 

the sun looks like a small ember of coal, 

and the rest of the world is dropped into darkness 

as if the sun is just another moon, 

barely lit and slowly fading from view, 

another moon with another man’s face carved into it 

and i am just another meaningless speck of dust floating below it 

and my colorless blank eyes stare 

into shattered mirrors instead of a starry sky, 

and the mirrors reflect (god, why do they have to reflect) 

and my reflections stare back at me, laughing 

no longer m/e but some long-gone remnant of a corpse 

and i call for an answer, some form of help 

but i find that it is some twisted sick version of “me” who replies 

“d/o you still believe in that fan/tasy?” 

(and i find that it is sh/attered and gone, 

rotting in the last pages of my sketchbook) 

not a question b/ut rather some 

sickeningly sweet mockery of who i once was 

(i still re/gret all the decisions i made and 

i don’t think younger me was ever a good person) 

and i can’t help but wonder if i was ever “me” at all 

because i’ve grown to realize that all my mannerisms and the things i love 

are taken from others, i love the color p/urple 

because that was my best friend’s favorite color, i love the beach 

because my crush from 7th grade loved it, i blink my eyes when i’m nervous 

beca/use my neighbor from 2nd grade did it, i move my hands when i talk 

because my friend from deba/te does it when she talks, i snap when i can’t think straight 

because my (lying sna/ke of a) ex-best friend did it, it’s all just— 

it was never really me to begin with, was it? 

the leaf finally meets the water, and the mirrors crash down 

all around me, and all around me, as far as the eye can see is- 

fragmentation. 

i think you're fragile, yes, 

you've always been- but in a different way 

not in the hopeless, shattered way that i am, 

but in a hauntingly beautiful way- 

like a lonely rose that's far too delicate, 

a rose put in a glass case, on display, 

as if you weren't protected, 

you would wither- shrink- die- 

because society w/ould kill you with its poisons 

and they'd prey on you, predators drawn to fresh blood

your petals would become colorless and blank 

your thorns would wrap around your dull green leaves 

and you would simply be a victim, 

and you would lose your haunting fragility. 

like a snowflake, fluttering towards the ground- 

and you try to save it, 

but you're always just a second too late, 

and all that is left ar/e the drops of water 

that trickle down your wrists, tracing your veins- 

like drops of clear, pure, blood 

golden drops of blood that kill you from the inside 

and you break down sobbing because they’re gone and 

they will never come back no matter how hard you wish and 

nobody will realize or understand because they never knew them like you did— 

and that snowflake, that haunting fragility— it all disappears within a second 

and you speed through a thousand emotions as it melts, because— 

that’s you melting, isn’t it? 

that’s you dying, isn’t it? 

like a glass vase, 

beautiful and exquisitely crafted- 

but o/h-so-fragile, 

and if you were pushed over the edge, 

you’d topple and shatter into a thousand glass shards, 

and a “caution: glass shards” warning would be put at your death 

and there wouldn’t be a funeral, 

and i would be stuck remembering, 

planting the flowers you love so much, draping them all over that 

yellow caution sign, red against yellow, contrast, contrast, contrast. 

and if someone went and grabbed a handful of that 

iridescent glass glitter that ever-so-s/lightly pricks your hand 

they wouldn’t feel anything 

but i would sit there for hours and keep it between my hands, 

sifting the glass shards, until my hands are bloody and stained, 

pricked a thousand times— but it would be worth it, 

and if you keep those shards in your hand for long enough, 

(not getting pricked, just holding them— 

“i’m there for you—”) 

you could feel the– 

fragmen tation. 

i think this world is fra/gile, yes 

but in an old way, as if it has existed for too long 

hooked up to thousands of medical devices, 

coughing and wheezing, 

breathing out half smoke half life, 

as humanity seemingly can’t decide whether to destroy it or save it 

the delicate "equi/librium" that is slowly tipping towards destruction, 

and the doomsday clock is ticking 

and i can't help but wonder 

how much time do i have left with you? 

how much time b/efore i die- 

before you die- 

before this world dies? 

how much time,

how much time- 

i wish it was forever 

and i wonder if there is some secret way to save you- 

to remove you from that hauntingly beaut/iful fragility, 

to have you be able to truly live in that fantasy that i once dreamed of- 

i wonder if there is a way to paint the sky blue again with a big brush, 

sweeping over all the gray and s/moke and clouds, 

and then a bright green for the grass, 

and then little colorful flowers, blooming all over- 

and would this world be "cured" then? 

i wonder if there is a way to break society's mold, 

to take a hammer and destroy it all, 

the stone, the walls, the cast-iron cages

maybe then would this world be "cured"? 

would we have our "forever?" 

and i wonder if there is a way to cure this world 

besides this glass/like poetry i am writing- 

not in that it is pristine and beautiful, 

but that it, too, is fragile. 

it will disappear along with me.

the world can never be saved with something as ephemeral as this- 

and maybe someday it will stop exper/iencing this horrible- 

fragmen ta tion

i think everything is fragile, 

and everywhere i look my heart pains 

and in every corner i see fragility. 

i see it in the dangling gossamer strands that 

spiders weave as they fl/oat in the wind, 

waiting to be taken to some new land- 

are they scared when they're dangling off of ceilings and roof-tops? 

i can't help but wonder what will happen if it snap/s and br/eaks, 

if someone cu/ts it, and they don't realize in time, 

and they fall to the ground. 

i can't help but wonder if they will d/ie, and i can't help but wonder 

if that dizzy spiral of falling is terrifying- 

and i break a little more in/side, because maybe 

it feels like falling into the rabbit hole that you led me in, and 

maybe it feels like bet/rayal, so bitter you can almost taste it on your tongue- unparalleled

frag men ta tion 

i see it in insects when they d/ie,

crushed by some shapeless color/less giant, 

fried by magnifying glasses while being 

surrounded by mocking childrens' laughter, 

as if they're having fun- is this really humanity? 

i can't help but wonder if they, too, 

feel the pain of los/ing their loved ones- 

i can't help but wonder what it feels like to die, to be lost- 

i can't help but wonder if these insects have 

little insect lives of their own-

do they live together? imagine for a moment if 

the husband never came home (hes long gone, crushed and dead, fried by glass—) 

and the wife is stuck wondering, staring at a bowl of soup that is now cold, 

waiting for her husband —

and i break a little more inside, 

because maybe they do feel the pain of waiting, 

waiting for you, 

waiting for someone to come "h/ome", and they never do- isnt that- 

fra g men ta ti on

i see it in the wings of a limping swallow 

as it sits on the concrete ground, 

dragging it's dull wings, and resigned to it's fate 

to be stuffed and taxidermied, hung in a museum 

the bright polished poles of metal like 

fingerprints in the mid/st of brush strokes, 

interr/upting the very flow of nature- and 

i can't help but wonder if the swallow is tired of being 

something for prying eyes to gaze at 

hidden behind layers of thick glass that's 

constantly being tap/ped on by children far too young to understand pain 

i can't help but wonder if it wishes on shooting stars 

and you can't tell the difference between a shooting star and a crashing air/plane 

i can't help but won/der if it wishes to be free 

just like me- just like- 

fr a g me n t at i on

but how can i ch/ange anything in this cruel world? 

so here i stand, stationary, waiting- 

for some/thing, 

anything, a sign- 

symbolism- do i th/ink too much? 

about things like these? 

i can't help but wonder if the world really gives us signs, if fate is real after all, and somewhere in that star-dotted sky, there is some all-knowing figure that decides everything- and 

i want to ask them "why?" it's a simple question but there's so much more to it- and 

i hate the unfeeling harshness of today's society where nobody is "good enough" 

what is "good enough" - what is "good enough" - what is "good enough" 

was that "good enough" - is this "good enough"? 

and when you cry and break you're "fragile" but 

if you're not you're unfeeling and cold and it seems 

that everyone is unfeeling and cold and i pity those 

who cannot seem to feel for the fragile butterflies and swallows and roses 

but most of all i pity those who cannot seem to feel 

for the fragile human souls that break oh-so-easily 

and they're delicate like glass - ("handle with care") 

and that seems to be the majority of people and 

there doesn't seem to be a single thread of 

emotion in today's world? never, never- this 

world is too corporate a/nd capitalist and 

ever/yone is preoccup/ied with their own work 

too preoccupied to care and because of that i 

have sworn to understand all the misunderstandings and 

say all the unsaid words and 

think all the unthought thoughts but 

even thou/gh i try my best i just can't 

i can't do this, and it's really just a broken complaint 

of our equally b/roken society and 

unsent letters litter my floor and 

all the words make me dizzy and i 

can't seem to read and it all 

blurs tog/ether, not in a 

melting pot of letters but rather a 

what does this even mean? and 

all the thoughts are breaking my head

fragile, fragi/le, fra/gi/le, my 

mind is a dangerous plac/e and my 

hands are dangerous to myself and 

i can/'t be trusted alone with my thou/ghts and 

i cry and br/eak a l/ittle more inside each time i think, 

every time, 

all the t/ime, 

until there is no more to be br/oken, and 

i am simply iri/descent glitter, 

floating away in the w/ind- and all that is left is- 

f r a g m e n t a t i o n 

 

could you write one using the prompt 'puzzle piece'? thank u! <333

OKAY. this is actually the last edit of fragmentation (i lied last time) 

fragmentation

i think i’m fragile—

“dark” wasn’t always dark— 

in the beginning, i found myself there

it was eden’s garden in a nutshell, 

but it soon collapsed 

(and to this day i wonder 

what the apple was) 

“dark” slowly stretches into dark— 

just like how hours stretched into eternities 

and shards of glass and ice 

grew dangerously close to my heart 

“dark” finally becomes dark— 

(as the realization finally sets in) 

how the shards of glass and ice 

pierced through my heart, 

snapped the strings, 

and i was rendered a puppet once more and 

the warm blood runs cold down my chest, 

dripping into puddles that pool at my side, 

tainting the pristine white flowers that stand so valiantly at my side, 

dripping up into the bloody sun 

that shines so brightly, taunting me, 

the remnants of a smile carved into it's moving mouth, 

"do you still dream of that utopia? 

the one where every day, it is bright? 

it is bright here, is it not?" 

yes, yes, it is but 

in a terrifying way 

as if i am stuck in a nightmare, 

(sleep paralysis echoes through my mind) 

unable to get out, 

as if i am wearing those eclipse glasses 

the ones i wore to watch the partial eclipse 

just a few months ago, and 

the sun looks like a small ember of coal, 

and the rest of the world is dropped into darkness 

as if the sun is just another moon, 

barely lit and slowly fading from view, 

another moon with another man’s face carved into it 

and i am just another meaningless speck of dust floating below it 

and my colorless blank eyes stare 

into shattered mirrors instead of a starry sky, 

and the mirrors reflect (god, why do they have to reflect) 

and my reflections stare back at me, laughing 

no longer m/e but some long-gone remnant of a corpse 

and i call for an answer, some form of help 

but i find that it is some twisted sick version of “me” who replies 

“d/o you still believe in that fan/tasy?” 

(and i find that it is sh/attered and gone, 

rotting in the last pages of my sketchbook) 

not a question b/ut rather some 

sickeningly sweet mockery of who i once was 

(i still re/gret all the decisions i made and 

i don’t think younger me was ever a good person) 

and i can’t help but wonder if i was ever “me” at all 

because i’ve grown to realize that all my mannerisms and the things i love 

are taken from others, i love the color p/urple 

because that was my best friend’s favorite color, i love the beach 

because my crush from 7th grade loved it, i blink my eyes when i’m nervous 

beca/use my neighbor from 2nd grade did it, i move my hands when i talk 

because my friend from deba/te does it when she talks, i snap when i can’t think straight 

because my (lying sna/ke of a) ex-best friend did it, it’s all just— 

it was never really me to begin with, was it? 

the leaf finally meets the water, and the mirrors crash down, disappearing into glittering dust 

and all around me, as far as the eye can see is- 

fragmentation. 

i think you're fragile, yes, 

you've always been- but in a different way 

not in the hopeless, shattered way that i am, 

but in a hauntingly beautiful way- 

like a lonely rose that's far too delicate, 

a rose put in a glass case, on display, 

as if you weren't protected, 

you would wither- shrink- die- 

because society w/ould kill you with its poisons 

and they'd prey on you, predators drawn to fresh blood

rose petals turning into pink dust 

floating down to meet the cold marble of the ballroom floor 

the sanguine air that filled that ballroom, where did it go? 

the dull green leaves speak for themselves, and it seems like it has disappeared 

your thorns wrap around you and pierce your skin your flesh your heart

leaving spurting fountains of scarlet red 

fang-like imprints as if a vampire has sucked your soul and you are dead and gone 

and i suppose if you weren’t protected that would be a plausible scenario 

it’s a horrifying thought. 

like a snowflake, fluttering towards the ground- 

and you try to save it, 

but you're always just a second too late, 

and all that is left ar/e the drops of water 

that trickle down your wrists, tracing your veins- 

like drops of clear, pure, blood 

golden drops of blood that kill you from the inside 

where did you go where did the time go where did all of it go 

where where where wouldn’t you like to know? 

the drops (now scarlet) that slide down your wrists say it all 

where where where to another fantasy? 

what you wouldn’t give to live in that fantasy.

formerly crystallized formations meet the uncomfortable heat of society and 

they melt down and are absorbed in with enough time 

another part of the problem slowly but surely

and i suppose that problem won’t ever be solved

so why corrupt the pure why send them down

its meaningless it all is it always was 

i think you can see what i mean when i say 

hauntingly beautiful. 

like a glass vase, 

beautiful and exquisitely crafted- 

but o/h-so-fragile, 

and if you were pushed over the edge, 

you’d topple and shatter into a thousand glass shards, 

and a “caution: glass shards” warning would be put at your death 

and there wouldn’t be a funeral, 

and i would be stuck remembering, 

planting the flowers you love so much, draping them all over that 

yellow caution sign, red against yellow, contrast, contrast, contrast. 

and if someone went and grabbed a handful of that 

iridescent glass glitter that ever-so-s/lightly pricks your hand 

they wouldn’t feel anything 

but i would sit there for hours and keep it between my hands, 

sifting the glass shards, until my hands are bloody and stained, 

pricked a thousand times— but it would be worth it, 

and if you keep those shards in your hand for long enough, 

(not getting pricked, just holding them— 

“i’m there for you—”) 

you can feel the– 

fragmen tation. 

i think this world is fra/gile, yes 

but in an old way, as if it has existed for too long 

hooked up to thousands of medical devices, 

coughing and wheezing, 

breathing out half smoke half life, 

as humanity seemingly can’t decide whether to destroy it or save it 

the delicate "equi/librium" that is slowly tipping towards destruction, 

and the doomsday clock is ticking 

and i can't help but wonder 

how much time do i have left with you? 

how much time b/efore i die- 

before you die- 

before this world dies? 

how much time,

how much time- 

i wish it was forever 

and i wonder if there is some secret way to save you- 

to remove you from that hauntingly beaut/iful fragility, 

to have you be able to truly live in that fantasy that i once dreamed of- 

i wonder if there is a way to paint the sky blue again with a big brush, 

sweeping over all the gray and s/moke and clouds, 

and then a bright green for the grass, 

and then little colorful flowers, blooming all over- 

and would this world be "cured" then? 

i wonder if there is a way to break society's mold, 

to take a hammer and destroy it all, 

the stone, the walls, the cast-iron cages

maybe then would this world be "cured"? 

would we have our "forever?" 

and i wonder if there is a way to cure this world 

besides this glass/like poetry i am writing- 

not in that it is pristine and beautiful, 

but that it, too, is fragile. 

it will disappear along with me.

the world can never be saved with something as ephemeral as this- 

and maybe someday it will stop exper/iencing this horrible- 

fragmen ta tion

i think everything is fragile, 

and everywhere i look my heart pains 

and in every corner i see fragility. 

i see it in the dangling gossamer strands that 

spiders weave as they fl/oat in the wind, 

waiting to be taken to some new land- 

are they scared when they're dangling off of ceilings and roof-tops? 

i can't help but wonder what will happen if it snap/s and br/eaks, 

if someone cu/ts it, and they don't realize in time, 

and they fall to the ground. 

i can't help but wonder if they will d/ie, and i can't help but wonder 

if that dizzy spiral of falling is terrifying- 

and i break a little more in/side, because maybe 

it feels like falling into the rabbit hole that you led me in, and 

maybe it feels like bet/rayal, so bitter you can almost taste it on your tongue- unparalleled

frag men ta tion 

i see it in insects when they d/ie,

crushed by some shapeless color/less giant, 

fried by magnifying glasses while being 

surrounded by mocking childrens' laughter, 

as if they're having fun- is this really humanity? 

i can't help but wonder if they, too, 

feel the pain of los/ing their loved ones- 

i can't help but wonder what it feels like to die, to be lost- 

i can't help but wonder if these insects have 

little insect lives of their own-

do they live together? imagine for a moment if 

the husband never came home (hes long gone, crushed and dead, fried by glass—) 

and the wife is stuck wondering, staring at a bowl of soup that is now cold, 

waiting for her husband —

and i break a little more inside, 

because maybe they do feel the pain of waiting, 

waiting for you, 

waiting for someone to come "h/ome", and they never do- isnt that- 

fra g men ta ti on

i see it in the wings of a limping swallow 

as it sits on the concrete ground, 

dragging it's dull wings, and resigned to it's fate 

to be stuffed and taxidermied, hung in a museum 

the bright polished poles of metal like 

fingerprints in the mid/st of brush strokes, 

interr/upting the very flow of nature- and 

i can't help but wonder if the swallow is tired of being 

something for prying eyes to gaze at 

hidden behind layers of thick glass that's 

constantly being tap/ped on by children far too young to understand pain 

i can't help but wonder if it wishes on shooting stars 

and you can't tell the difference between a shooting star and a crashing air/plane 

i can't help but won/der if it wishes to be free 

just like me- just like- 

fr a g me n t at i on

but how can i ch/ange anything in this cruel world? 

so here i stand, stationary, waiting- 

for some/thing, 

anything, a sign- 

symbolism- do i th/ink too much? 

about things like these? 

i can't help but wonder if the world really gives us signs, if fate is real after all, and somewhere in that star-dotted sky, there is some all-knowing figure that decides everything- and 

i want to ask them "why?" it's a simple question but there's so much more to it- and 

i hate the unfeeling harshness of today's society where nobody is "good enough" 

what is "good enough" - what is "good enough" - what is "good enough" 

was that "good enough" - is this "good enough"? 

and when you cry and break you're "fragile" but 

if you're not you're unfeeling and cold and it seems 

that everyone is unfeeling and cold and i pity those 

who cannot seem to feel for the fragile butterflies and swallows and roses 

but most of all i pity those who cannot seem to feel 

for the fragile human souls that break oh-so-easily 

and they're delicate like glass - ("handle with care") 

and that seems to be the majority of people and 

there doesn't seem to be a single thread of 

emotion in today's world? never, never- this 

world is too corporate a/nd capitalist and 

ever/yone is preoccup/ied with their own work 

too preoccupied to care and because of that i 

have sworn to understand all the misunderstandings and 

say all the unsaid words and 

think all the unthought thoughts but 

even thou/gh i try my best i just can't 

i can't do this, and it's really just a broken complaint 

of our equally b/roken society and 

unsent letters litter my floor and 

all the words make me dizzy and i 

can't seem to read and it all 

blurs tog/ether, not in a 

melting pot of letters but rather a 

what does this even mean? and 

all the thoughts are breaking my head

fragile, fragi/le, fra/gi/le, my 

mind is a dangerous plac/e and my 

hands are dangerous to myself and 

i can/'t be trusted alone with my thou/ghts and 

i cry and br/eak a l/ittle more inside each time i think, 

every time, 

all the t/ime, 

until there is no more to be br/oken, and 

i am simply iri/descent glitter, 

floating away in the w/ind- and all that is left is- 

f r a g m e n t a t i o n 

 

Your poems are always so good! If you want to, could you write a poem about the moon? Thank you <3