Glass Man Poem by Michael Ardizzone

There's no glass left
to break in my hand
when I make a fist.

There's no strength left
in my swollen pride
to make a fist.

and to raise it,
well the broken glass
has torn my shoulder so...

And all my dreams have fallen
onto this ground,
covered in eggshells.

and all my friends have left
this ground
to swell their pride elsewhere.

When I die
my deathbed will have no legs
because it's hard to be tall
when you can't stand up.