My hear is a broken birdcage.
It cannot bear being filled and emptied countless times.
It's becoming rusty, tattered and worn
from the constant showers of tears I'm letting free.
The hinges are falling apart,
the bars are cracking,
the door squeaks,
the paint is chipping off.
It's very fragile.
People don't see the birds,
that flutter inside when you walk by.
They don't realize that when you hurt me,
the door swings open,
and all the birds carrying my feelings in their beaks,
are set free.
When I am hurt,
all I'm truly left with,
is an empty,
broken birdcage.