We all bleed the same. 

Living is hard,

whether you are 7

and diagnosed with cancer in your pancreas,

or 70 and the road sign in your mind is dying out like a pit stop on an abandoned railway once used by passing trains, then left in restraint.

We all bleed the same. 

There are days when you have to force yourself to shower,

and days when you shower for three hours,

the steam the only embrace

your cold skin can find.

We all bleed the same.

The nights are either too long or too short,

no one gets the right amount of sleep

and those that say they do are lying,

you’ve either got an ocean

caressing your pillow,

or no tears at all.

You wonder 

where they all wandered off to.

We all bleed the same. 

Living is hard,

but life is so beautiful.

Like the sky on an overcast night,

your stars are still there, shining bright

behind the clouds, while the constellations in your eyes wait

to be seen. A wind will come; 

a lover, a friend, a stranger with a kind smile,

will blow your clouds away.

We all bleed the same. 

You are going to fall in love,

over and over until you get it right. 

It may be a long road,

but the aisle is short and you look so beautiful

in lace. Maybe you’ll have kids,

or maybe your books will be your children.

You’ll have something you love,

something you take care of.

Something that makes you smile.

We all bleed the same. 

You’re going to learn new things.

You’ll travel, write, draw pictures of mermaids.

Maybe you’ll show them to people,

or maybe you won’t,

but you are going to create,

and it will be so wonderful.

You are going to be happy.

We all bleed the same, but 

we all shine the same.

And you can’t see it right now,

because the fog is too thick and the tunnel too dark,

but the stars are there, the sun is rising, and 

tomorrow is a new day.

You won't have to bleed anymore. 

Tomorrow, you will shine. 

And when cut

Mr. square's blood was yellow

When stabbed Mrs. Triangle's blood was blue

Dr. Oval's blood was blushed green

The Rhombus brothers leaked orange

The little rectangle child looked pink but was oddly sky

And when mixed on a pallet 

The colors are brilliant 

The taste a color of its own

and standing amongst the point

and with the tip leaking with us

We all bleed the same

It's funny how the most beautiful things are the most

susceptible to break;

A hollow shell boasts polished exterior

painted with intricacies

perfected by the rituals of daily life

all products of a cosmetic revolution

designed to buff and polish and conceal

what cannot be wished away

But under the same incandescent light

we are all yellow

and tired

and frail;

Held together by our aspirations that one day

after the most extravagant metamorphose

we will finally be released from the glue of insecurity

and so that we may fall apart

to rebuild once again

so that we are not quite so hollow

and perhaps everything will ok

Because the truth is

eventually

our porcelain exteriors will shatter and break

or become dull alongside the processes of age

And one may see through the porcelain walls we built

to conceal the brittle entity that is human nature

riddled with its imperfections

which no cosmetic blanket can hide

And

eventually

once all our exteriors have fallen

into dusty porcelain pieces at our feet

we will realize that we are the same

asymmetric and unpredictable

yet beautiful and strong

and  filled with the humanity we suppressed

which made us weak