Puzzles

People are like puzzles, sort of, in a way…

They are made of many pieces, a patchwork of character, experiences, feelings

Like a quilt or a farming valley, so different and unique

But like a puzzle they are fragile, they can shatter to pieces

 

Puzzles come in boxes with pictures on the front.

People come in boxes too, or rather, they box themselves up.

They display only what they think will sell,

“I’ll act this way, and speak like this—limit what you see, nothing more.”

 

My picture looks like the perfect daughter, student, friend

I’ve got the grades, the strength; I lack the cloud of drama

No storms rise, just a placid seascape.

This is what I let you see—only this part of me.

 

But as I give you me, piece-by-piece, you see some parts don’t match the box

You ask, “How can this be?”

Take away my makeup and you see the blemishes and scars.

I’m not all sunshine and smiles.

 

I’m done confining myself to my box,

So I share myself with you. I’m not perfect. I know hurt. I know the taste of sin.

I am human. I am a mix of good and bad, of happy and sad.

Now all this I let you see—all, unlimited, reality.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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