They judge me as a failure.

You stand before the gallery of men,

Pointing to the canvas I have made,

You take the brush to strike it out again,

And cast my colors deep into the shade.

 

You call me ruin, barren, and undone,

A hollow vessel broken at the seams,

You block the warming promise of the sun,

And hold the shears to harvest all my dreams.

 

Yet in the quiet hall where shadows meet,

When all your polished peers have gone to rest,

You drag my failure from the city street,

And pull the tattered pieces to your chest.

 

You keep me locked behind a heavy door,

A secret weight you carry in your stride;

I am the ghost you argue to abhor,

The very thing you cannot help but hide.

 

You judge the light, you criticize the frame,

You claim I never learned the way to grow,

Yet you are trembling just to speak my name,

The only part of you that’s real, I know.