All I can say is I tried

That I gave it my best shot

But sometimes things don't work out

Even if you want them a lot

No, it isn't fair

And I can't make it right

You gave me all you had

Just to get close to my light

But that light is made of flames

Burning up all I've seen

And it will burn you up too

And everything you might have been

I know you say you can bear the flames

That your skin is tough

But even the thickest skin gives

When it's had too much

You may have strength to spare

With arms built to take the weight

But no one can support a world

That's not just blooming late

Wreck under appreciated libertarians to exemplify excellent traits of honor and greed.

Avid learners burn their pens to know the secrets of lies written in sand blown curtains.

Days pass and in minutes volcanoes fall to glaciers crashing on deserts like waves on clouds.

Confusion rises as fever on a voodoo doll.

Take coins to pay for billion dollar charities and help a million in one until none have been saved.

Criminals repent to the preaching sinners, claiming innocence to the indifferent who care not of their crimes.

We broke shattered vases claiming not to know that cracks appeared in ceramics.

Glue is our favorite tool during the Stone Age to stick each other together as individuals.

I thought we would begin where we ended on notes that harmonize like breaking glass in a blizzard.

I held my breath against the copper smell saturating the air. That's what happens when you shoot someone. The bullet goes so fast that the blood turns into mist. Light as air and drifting until I breathe in the evidence of my actions. Only it wasn't over.

She laid on the floor, gasping as the hole in her chest gurgled and foamed blood. I knew I should feel something. Guilt or regret. A sadness that the person I knew almost as well as myself would be gone in a few minutes. But I didn't. I felt nothing. Not even a rush from the gun kicking back in my hands and the ringing in my ears. And there was no satisfaction in the shock on my sister's face when I pulled the gun on her and she saw I would squeeze the trigger.

I sighed, and in the intake of breath the taste of pennies filled my mouth, all the way to the back of my tongue. My sister gasped while I stood watching. The gun was still in my hand and I wasn't yet sure what I would do with it. But as my best friend of fourteen years looked at me with pleading eyes I knew what I had to do. I raised the gun and fired again. A new plume of copper and gunpowder scented air engulfed the room. My sister was dead. The bullet just over her left eyebrow.

I stroked the spot on my own face. It looked just like hers. Exactly like hers in fact. That's how it works with identical twins after all. But now there was a difference. A hole streaming blood although her heart had already stopped. I couldn't leave her like that. From birth we were indistinguishable. In death we had to be the same. I put the gun to my left eyebrow, staring down at my twins lifeless face. In a moment my own face would be dead and expressionless. I made sure it was in the right spot and pulled the trigger. Heat exploded in my head and then it was over. I collapsed next to my sister bleeding from the head. "Forever the same," I whispered as blackness swept me away.

People want to think the world is broken. That there's always something to fix. And there is, but rarely is it something broken. A girl with a skirt too short. A boy with hair too long. A woman who wants the bump in her belly gone. A man who can't tell anymore what's wrong.

There is sadness in the world, but we misplace our efforts when trying to help. We ignore charities when they come knocking on the door.

Then shun the homeless just for being poor. Still we turn around, when someone challenges their way of life, and defend them because we do understand their strife. But when everyone leaves them alone, we leave them too. Because how can we give someone else a home, when at some level we don't believe they deserve one.

We wish to help the broken in other countries but refuse to help our own.

Now here is the true mistake of misconstruing what is broken.

Telling someone they're too dumb, or too smart. That they need to stop gorging themselves, or eat a full meal for a start. That they can't like this or that. Because what they were born as decided if they play with dolls or a baseball bat. We tell children they can be anything they want, then shut them down when they answer an astronaut. We try to give advice where it's not needed. To people happy as they are but become sadder once someone suggest they're a garden that must be weeded. We forgot though, what weeds truly are. They're the plants we don't want because when they grow they go too far. Doesn't that say something about us? That we think the things that can't be controlled should be destroyed, all because their invictus personalities leave us annoyed. When was it decided that roses that took everything being just right to survive were more important than dandelions who could triumph over any condition? When was it decided that being pampered made something more valuable than something that fought for its right to live?

This is our broken world. We want roses when dandelions have to fight everything to survive. Fight all attempts at weeding when someone decides they don't match the garden by digging their roots deeper.

We break the things that are strong and just hanging on but caress the things that are already striving.

Somehow that just seems wrong.