Through the Lens of Fractured Glass

Through the Lens of Fractured Glass

You say I’m “brain‑damage,”
as if my thoughts were wreckage,
a broken antenna catching static
instead of signal.

Your eyes are windows‑to‑the‑world,
but they’re clouded with a rumor,
a whisper that bounces off the walls
of my own mind’s cathedral.

I hear the echo of your certainty—
the way you trace the lines on my face
like a cartographer mapping a ruin,
labeling every scar as “caution.”

But inside, the neurons fire like fireworks,
not in disarray but in defiance,
painting constellations where you see ash.

I am not a broken machine,
nor a glitch in the program of the universe.
I am a river that has cut through stone,
carving new courses when the old ones
were dammed by fear.

When you look, try to see the water,
not the debris it once carried.
The “damage” you name is only a word—
a mirror cracked, reflecting
your own hesitation to see the whole.

So let the world call me what it will—
a wounded poet, a scar‑bearing sage—
but know this: the brain that you think is broken
is the very engine that keeps the night turning,
the heart that still beats in a rhythm
only the brave learn to hear.

And if you ever stand close enough,
you’ll feel the pulse of a mind unbound—
not damaged, but resilient,
not diminished, but daring.

—
In the end, the label belongs to the one who gives it.