Let them be as wallpaper,
Always neat, tidy, beautiful, connected,
But harnessed to a wall of a stable house.
I'd rather be a small, rusty nail,
Needed by many but used by few,
Breaking through the house's inner spine.
To have beaten the odds,
And broken through the plasters and wood,
To be exposed to the madness
Of the elements or
Protected by a single roof.
I'd rather be unseen, and if
Then worked around and covered up,
Than to be lovely to the eyes,
Covering up all the imperfections of a broken home,
Where the physical perfection hides raw beauty,
Of souls contained within.
I'd rather smell of metal, red rust
Than of crisp new paper,
If I could support my own alone and free,
I'd rather be a nail.
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