In life we are given a window

A perfectly clear window.

Others see into our widow

And us into theirs.

As we grow we see that

some windows are scratched, 

marked, and broken.

The world says: that is beautiful,

that is different.

So we break our windows too.

A streak of blue paint here,

a crack down the middle,

Now we are different.

Now we are beautiful.

This is what others want to see.

This is not me,

but this is pretty.

As years go by we change

our widows more.

Red paint now,

and some ribbon on the edges. 

Soon our beautiful window

is all there is to be seen.

Us trapped in side saying: 

"No! Please! Look at the real me!"