Thingy I wrote called 'Life' (it continues on to the 1st question)

It crumbles, it falls, it hits the cold hard floor.
It never was strong, always weak.
Never meant anything, but the lies surrounding it gave it false reason.
It held so much yet couldn't support it all.
It had to let go of the most important things it had.
No one gave it time to grow, to become strong.
All the lies it has been through, struggling to make.
Does it really ever understand the beauty of light?
Does it not fall when broken?
Does it rise above all else?