You may not have been birthed in the soil, and granted, you will not blossom when spring melts winters wake but inside of you grows a thousand gardens full of exploding stars. You are of the earth and your ashes have been constructed with stardust, and set free with the wind. So you may not have a pretty face, and your body may hold stories of too many moonless nights alone. But if you reach inside, you will find a forest for a ribcage and a restless ocean heart. So don't ever let anyone tell you you are nothing. You are a galaxy holding a million different planets, and my dear, that is not nothing.