• Published 26th Jun 2014
  • 1,022 Views, 16 Comments

Rocks and Other Breakable Things - KiroTalon

Pinkie writes poetry about her childhood. It turns out her life before Ponyville was a world best left in her past.

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Rocks and Other Breakable Things

The rocks lie silent, broken, breaking,
The pain they feel they hide, they never
Cry and nor shall I.
No cracks, no chipping, never shattered

That quaint and quiet farm I walked
And trod upon the broken rocks,
A filly's stride could never quite
The Work. No fun, no color, somber
Stoic, faceless stones sit and wait to be

Too young to know the
Is too hard, not meant for me.
Never meant for me, but I do it.
I lie
Or stand. I carry
And guilt.
Even though I do not want to do it
I do.

My sisters know the work is never
Done. The things I do, they did in turn
Too young. The pain in time will
But with it take the sense of feeling, for no time can
That which the harsh and cleansing light may not see.
Only numbness through can truly dull,
And so we numb.

One through feelings lost to dull grey,
Stoic and painless as the rock she emulates.
One to silent anger, directionless and
Cold, the searing agony of hate hides the dull ache.
One to fear and loneliness, a blank
And bitter life alone avoiding memories.
One to denial, thorough and deep, a layer of
Lies too deep to believe and too shallow to cover neat.

We hide
In ourselves from him. We cannot hide outside.
A filly's stride too short to escape
The Work.
We break rocks.
He breaks.
We all break
In time.
The greatest rock resists the pick
To no avail. Silent acceptance eases the strike
And blood from a stone flows easy when that stone is stone in
Only soul and name.

The rocks are silent. They fear the
Pick but cannot escape, and so they suffer
Rock can break, and break.
Damaged rock more jagged 'comes, and breaking only hones the
Relentless chipping, picking, until no longer stone but flint,
And flinted stone can cut and does.
The broken stones can only watch the flint strike steel.
The sparks shower, and the wilted flowers soak up the bloody rain
To grow.

They will not grow true.
Their petals run red.
Streaks and lazy curls of crimson hate will mar
Their hiding faces. They will not bloom.

The rock farm lies vast, and the empty fields grow long,
Too long for a filly's stride to
But no fillies live here. Only rocks, broken and blood red.
They find their way.
Not together.
Like scattered chips and tattered cloth, they wander,
Not fleeing. There is no fear. The pick is broken.

Once whole, they part. Like rolling
They gather nothing. Their paths diverge, and never
Two rocks already cracked can only shatter if struck

I met a rock. My cracks were worn dull and hers
Filled with something strong. Too strong.
Harder than a rock, and I less than one.
We struck, and no longer cracked, we caromed
Off one another. No damage. No connection.
We did not recognize one another.
No longer rocks, but less.
And more.
But never whole again.

We parted, as though our paths had never
Crossed again.
Rolling stones, still gathering nothing.
Useless when damaged.
Only fit to sit
And wait.

We erode to dust and fade away
And all that remains is the