I am not a diamond
I am not glistening, not desired by many.
But I do think I might be coal
Seen as useful by some
*****, disgusting, polluting by others
And if you put me underground
The weight of the earth pressing in on me from all sides
Just maybe I could be something pretty, wanted.

Maybe I'm like black coffee
An acquired taste, not enjoyed by many
One even myself cannot stomach.
(What does that say about me?)
And I desperately fill myself with words and pictures
Soft and beautiful like gossamer and lace
All of the things I am not
In hopes that I will be sweet enough to drink.

Perhaps I'm a portrait, all broken brush strokes
And darkened shades of pthalos
And the voice drifting past say how beautiful it is
And how they can't wait to see it when it's done.
But it's already finished
They simply don't like to believe something that dark and eerie and broken
Is not a work in progress.

I guess this is just my fate
to be surrounded by people waiting for me to become something more than I am
Something less dark and broken
Something more delicate and beautiful
Something sweeter.
But they'll all leave in time
When they realize this is actually who I am
And that I'm not unfinished.