Empty Box

Damaged goods is what they call us
The poor little dears of the world
Twisted and molded and pounded like dough
to rise and become an image 
of what could have been

Grasping desperately 
for that small thread of security
In self and in others
That small thread 
that will remain so elusive

Always slightly discontented
Not knowing for sure
what others want or need 
or where you'll go
Maybe it's better to let go than to arrive

To be and not to become
Is that the question?
The answer is in the final product
It's not what we became, it's who we are.