Broken

I am like a piece of fine china--
I was born perfect;
no chips, no scratches,
perfectly beautiful.
my colors were once vibrant and bright
and everyone adored my newness.

But as I grew, my newness faded
along with my vibrant colors.
I became scratched and chipped with use,
but that was ok because I was loved
and that was enough.

Then one day, I saw my reflection
and I realized
that I don't match the rest of the china.
I was still used occasionally, and still loved,
but suddenly that didn't seem like enough.

And the truth?
I only noticed that I didn't match
because that is what the world told me.
And because I believed the world my chips got bigger,
and I became
more broken.

I no longer could shine like I once did,
so by most, I was thrown to the back of the cupboard,
where I sat chipped and feeling alone for a long time...
until it was time for spring cleaning.

I am dusty and broken
and most can no longer see my beauty
so I'm packed up
and tossed out.
I'm sure this is the end.

But little do I know that I am indeed still beautiful.

"How much for the plate?"
"For that old chipped thing? Ten cents should do."

Then, I'm taken away and washed clean.
I shine brighter than before.
I am loved and treasured.
And though I am chipped,
I am still enough.

Until one morning I slip through shaky hands.
I am broken into hundreds of tiny pieces.
"Now," I think to myself, "Now this is the end."

But to my surprise I'm swept up
and I'm looked at the same way I was before.
Though I am broken, it is obvious my beauty is still seen.

So instead of being thrown out,
I'm glued and grouted back together
into something completely new--
a magnificent mosaic
built of all of my broken pieces.

Who would have thought that broken could be so beautiful?
Who would have thought a broken piece of china could make something so spectacular?

You see, though we are all broken, we are still beautiful.
It just takes the right kind of person to be able to see it.
Broken things can become dazzling things if enough love and time are put into them.

And another thing about broken things-- each crack tells a story. Every scratch and chip means, "I survived".
In my eyes, broken is much more interesting than shiny,
and it is surely more beautiful.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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