My face looks like the face of cripples,
a mirror cracked, with jagged ripples,
lines that speak of battles lost,
of every pain, of every cost.
It is a mask the world misreads,
they see the scars, not where it bleeds,
but in the broken, bent-down frame
still burns a spark that has no name.
If I look crippled, let it be—
a testament of what shaped me.
For beauty hides in twisted art,
and strength is born from a shattered heart.