Habits.
The things that you do over and over again.
Not necessarily because you like it.
But because it is a habit.

Paradoxical enough?

Some talk while they sleep.
Some snore.
Some smile all the time.
Some bite their nails till they bite through the skin.

Habits are like Horcruxes.
No?
Each one has a little part of you.

Long after you’re gone,
They remind the ones who loved you,
Of you.

But some habits are unknown to everyone.
You keep them covered in a packet and carry it around in your pockets.
All they can see is your hands in the pocket.
The empty cavity of your palms hiding them.
Like they complete you.
Like they and you are made for each other.
And no one can see them.
But they are there.

Habits can be baggage.
And while they are not as alarming as baggage;
they can be real painful.
Like those shards in a bomb.

What’s mine?

I break my own heart.
Not necessarily in two parts.
I just shake it like a piggie bank to see if it still contains feelings.
And then I drop it.
It shatters into a million pieces.
Arguably.
I don’t want to argue on that,
I don’t have the heart to do so.

What do I do with the pieces?

I leave them there.
They always manage to get back together.
I take a brush and dip it in the biggest piece.

All I try to do is paint what I feel,
and wish for it to make sense.

And if it doesn’t,
I call it Poetry.