Age is just a number they say,
but I’m considered too young to be heard.
When I settle in my head,
I’m reminded to gather myself together.
How much blood can a bleeding heart shed?
How many tears can the weeping eyes gather?
I struggle to be the person I’ve known myself to be;
Not because I’ve forgotten who I am or hate who it is I am.
But I am ripped off of everything bold and told who I should be.
I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t hear from
the bloodline I owe no harm.
Now, my thoughts shiver like a caged
blackbird in the rain.
My reflection can’t stand light and
my shadow is too heavy to tag along.
Does time stand a chance against this pain or
Am I forever condemned to sing this old sad song?
An excellent child is not a child intimidated,
abused, and silenced.
It is a child who is heard,
encouraged, and empowered.
If my voice ever gets to sing a new song,
I will ensure it shatters every glass.
When my reflection remembers who I am,
then I know this too will pass.