Truth is, I'm really not much. In a world full of billions of people, I am a speck of dust on a piece of furniture, not quite visibly seen, until you run your finger over the surface and grimace at your dirty fingers. Somebody will surely wipe me off and throw me in a garbage can, more than happy to have gotten rid of me. You see, I'm not much.  I am a bird that's been captured from its home, locked behind wire bars and forced to sing to please one's ears. And although my melody is strained and sorrowful, to someone who does not understand I'm crying for help, it is a song of great beauty. I can beat my wings against the cage and refuse to eat for days until I am merely a skeleton, but no use of force will ever bring my freedom back.
I am a dandelion, growing strong and proud through the cracks of an asphalt sidewalk. Yet instead of being admired for my perseverance despite all the odds against me, I am stomped on, sprayed with toxins, cut down, ripped up and known as a pesky, ugly weed. A human's distorted and unfair opinion of what is beautiful or worthy enough to live, has killed me – a solitary and weak organism. And the truth is, that I am not much.