Fragile
Most of the time, almost always, I feel like a sturdy tin bucket. Placed solidly on the ground, with little drips of life coming down everyday.
But as time goes on the bucket fills, and I become more and more something else, untill I am a tall precarious vase on a shaky wooden table, filled to the brim with the water.
As a vase I look clean and polished, but in truth I wobble; my foundation unsteady.
Eventually a flower will be stuck into the vase, and it is then, with this added weight, that I tumble over, spilling water and heavy flowers all over the nice polished floors.
What a mess I’ve become. Who will clean this shattered vase, and water?
These millions of fragile fragments of myself, submerged.
How difficult the situation has become.
If only I had tumbled when I was still a bucket on the ground.
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