Holding One's Own.

The fine line btween priceless and worthless caries by number.

Hard to paint and hard to erase.

Can I ever be the same again?

To return to the days before I was ridiculed and despised...

or was I conceived a failure and shameful commodity?

A child's laughter that has no value;

a voice without a sound.

Torn down by the rain,

the wind,

and the words of those who gaze.

Heartily, ask for mercy,

they bellow in disregard.

Beneath them:

of no value and all shame.

Holding one's own hand

clasped around one's own throat,

fingers interlaced.

In the midst of a shallow grave,

with an endevour to end.