Worms
They say I'm poor.
They say I'm a whore.
They say they're better than me.
Their words like worms
crawl under my skin.
They might as well give up
trying to push me down,
squash me on the ground.
There's a spirit in me,
that rises with the sun daily,
driven by my ambitions.
It carries me to the sky,
where I belong.
I'm a shiny star.
I ascend like a tree,
sturdy like its trunk.
No words can penetrate me.
I know I am decent,
and squeaky clean,
like rain washed leaves.
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