wondering what becomes

i push
pulling process from
the parts of myself
i'm loathe to hold a
mirror to,
for everyone's interested
in something that bleeds
out fresh
there's no end to the curiosity
about the sorrow we accrue like bric-a-brac
glass ornaments on a shelf,
where they slowly splinter and crack
with the temperature fluctuation.
the ink i'm leaking i'll
slowly etch into my skin
over the years,
documenting frantically
before it all fades
with time
& i'm push pulling from
others, now
pleading poems from people
just as damaged as i am,
wondering what becomes
of our creations when unleashed,
what we discover
and exploit in others
and our own fragile heads
how are we somehow more qualified
& inclined to mine our minds
for chunks that sparkle?
i can't define
but i know what lens we view
through - the 50 - 200 zoom,
getting close in view
while holding ourselves removed,
lest we get
too mired in life
to continue on alone