we were built on the trembling foundation
of mutual sorrow and midnight whispers,
sustaining ourselves on a reservoir of tears.
you were always on the edge of the rooftop,
and I was there to catch you before you fell,
but did you ever stop for a moment,
and think about the honest dysfunction
of the blueprint itself?

our architect was nothing but chemical,
our brains filled up with eraser shavings,
draft upon draft in the prenatal stages,
and we still weren't right when we came out.
it was onward and upward, faster than us:
proceed with the building plans,
let us tear ourselves down when the time comes.

but somehow I was able to rise above,
straightneing up my design flaws
and hiring a carpenter in a faraway office
who taught me to connect with the people
knocking on my doors and begging to be let in.
you were not near as lucky,
crafted from the finest materials
yet left alone as your surface eroded away.

maybe you, I realize now,
are a beautiful relic of a bygone era
like art deco, or brutalism, take your pick.
a style, reminiscent of how far I've come
and for a moment, I will see your final fall
before turning around, cutting the ribbons and
closing the windows.

A/N: Here's a long one, what do you guys think? Feedback, please! Thanks.