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I imagine myself as a box One that you send to the post office To go to someone else I am a box going to God Was I packaged propperly? Maybe The outside is cardboard Ment to withstand Tough But the inside is a small piece of glass Fragile to the touch Complex and light In the post office I stood no chance I was smashed crushed and cut without care I was thrown to a small corner They tried to fix me But the tape didn't quite stick So now I am a tattered box With a crushed soul Do you think God could still love me? If I show up at his door Broken?
I AM A BOX
IS It my fault?
Will he be angry?
Why am I like this?
Am I too ugly inside?
What will he say when he sees me?
Will He care?
