You may write my sins on to the heavens
And cause me problems, a score of twenty-seven.
You may raise dust around with your busy feet
And Increase the volume of the noise you call music.
You may strip my happiness naked
and push me to the streets to feed on the scorn.
You may pretend you knew the buttons to turn up my esteem
And lie to my ears how tears look good on me.
You may paint your unsolicited judgments white to take the shape of advice.
You may stare at me from the corners of your eyes
And force me to kiss ice on a cold morning.
You may look at the size of my life in a mirror
And investigate every bit of its strife.
You may study round my shoes and proscribe a convention upon it.
You may do whatever you please
But one thing is sure,
Your contempt to me means nothing.