Broken Art

Broken pieces of art on the floor,

And no one knows who broke it.

But what they didn’t know is that before its fall,

The art was already broken.

It once stood perfectly tall,

Powerful and seemingly strong.

But no one noticed the millions of cracks

That ran all along its walls.

It’s strength and height fooled me,

From the cracks and missing pieces.

I never knew the art I loved and lived,

Was so toxic and unforgiving.

What beautiful art it was, it deceived my eyes.

It hurt my brain, my heart, my skin, my life.

It gave me my anger, and many sleepless nights.

It made me feel helpless, but that was normal. That was life. 

Then I was shown a glimpse what True Art was,

The Art without cracks,

The Art that was normal,

The Art I didn't have.

The art I had known before then gave into its cracks.

And as the broken pieces scattered across the floor

I didn't know how to react. I saw the poison rise and I felt my heart close.

The art had said it spoke only the truth but it was all a hoax.

The art said it loved me but it hurt me in my youth.

The art said I was the problem but I now know that isn’t true.

The art tainted my vision and now it's hard to see.

How am I supposed to know that the next broken art isn’t created by me?