Glitters of glass

Glitters of glass short poem

My life is like broken glass in my hands
What was once a beautiful ornament, now is shattered pieces of glass
The terror that came in the night
Has become the terror of the day

It’s like I’m in a desert of mess both
caused by self and involuntary occurrences
Like poison in the water
The pain has crept into the crevices of my soul

They block the light that tried to break through
Their shadows reminded me of the shame and sorrow
Still they tell me things like I have a normal life
You know just do, just try
But to be honest, this little boy is scared

Take my hand
Your hand…
My hand scarred

It’s hard to believe when you face death in the eyes
When you face sorrow in the night

Let the sorrow sweep you away says the pain
It’s a good friend, and a solid place
Till you are comfortable enough
Till it chokes you to death

But what happens when there is no light?

I use these broken pieces of glass
And throw them in the air, using the broken pieces to shine the light I need

All I could see was broken glass in my hands

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 2.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Profile photo of Rowyn Coetzee

Rowyn Coetzee

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
Hey! I live in Cape Town, South Africa. I am on other Social Media such as Facebook and YOUtube: Rowyn Coetzee and Twitter and Instagram: rocoetzee.
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

2 Comments on "Glitters of glass"

Notify of
Sort by:   newest | oldest
Editorial Board

“Glitters of Glass is a fine example of the fact that hope lives no matter how unbearable the pain is and how dark may be the night of the suffering soul. It truly depicts the miasma separating our emotional states. The life as Glass may be broken but it still reflects the rays of never ending hope.”


Spotted In Glass

Spotted In Glass short poem

Perfect bridges for a fading light taking you to dark caves like fireclay in fake sorrows. The superstition of a race pool and unearthing the sacred temple under a mount of lies. In vitro a baby god sleeps waiting for

Broken Glass

Broken Glass prose poem

BROKEN GLASS Standing here in front of me Are many pieces before me Looking down all I see Are different colored pieces Of what was me Broken, shattered and scattered Use to resemble me The glass I see before me

The Man In The Glass

The Man In The Glass prose poem

Looking in the glass I saw a fine young man Was it him only I was searching for a long span He never laughed at me when I cried He always smiled at me when I smiled He stood with

The Glass House

The Glass House short poem

Not yet, the courage will wait for the curtain to fall, will then disappear in awakening; the crucial thing was the love of absence the scythe of eclipsed moon. Suspense hangs from the tall image in slow turn of thighs


Glass short poem

the first is touch losing touch sense of touch losing softness losing abrasions… in dark amputation… this is how it was, my mother did not die, just detached, gradually less tenuously linked to life, until there was no link… now