“You may trod me in the very dirt.
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.”
The Haunting Glass
For the useless glass in front of me cannot portray my worth,
My talents or my fears or the story of my birth.
Really it tells you nothing, so why then do I care?
Why do I constantly just stand in front and stare?
Picking at each part, never viewing me as a whole.
This vessel of my being, protector of my soul.
Who even has the right, to say what is good and what is bad?
And why should I give others standards the power to make me sad?
