I am nothing

because my words are so fragile
like glass,
my similes just as see-through.
I call out from windows
to the stuck sunroof
of the sky, recite my poetry
to the clouds and even they refuse
to pour their rain for me.

I am nothing
because my words are so fragile
like glass,
because anything worth repeating
didn't get the job done
the first time, because my mind
is blown glass, molten
and beautiful: worth
a second breath
no one wants to give. Because
I am the red eye
of a cracked windshield
and not the struck pedestrian.
Cars go to junkyards, the dead
immortalized in eulogies, in words
I cannot seem to give.