Everyday you stand, you see.

You read only the cover of another’s book.

But if you peered at my small body,

you would have to take another look.

I am the beating pulse in my veins,

the fire in my heart.

Not a simple little miss,

or a fragile little part.

I am the bliss in my soul,

not the change in my old coat.

You only see the outside.

You look no further; don’t cross the moat.

But I am the graceful rhythm in my jagged step,

not the dirt on my shoes.

I may sing out loud to rock and roll

or sway with the blues.

I am the New York skyline in my eyes,

not the dusty town where I raised.

I will not be contained by you;

I will not be phased.

You say I am just a small speck

on Horton’s tiny flower.

That though I may try,

I do not hold much power.

But I am a flying bird;

not some tiny little mite.

For when I am pushed into the raging wind,

I’m sure to take flight.