Penny

Counted as one, gathered in pounds,

With a head being called the lucky one.

Collected, stored, trapped with mirrors, 

Or rusting at the bottom of a wishing well. 

Used for games, bets, decisions and more,

Despite how useless it can be.

Everyone of them counts to reach your dream,

But most are lost and left to be forgotten. 

Some admired, shining under the sun,

But some are molded, not wanted to be touched. 

Each one are counted as one,

Each one all counted as equal,

Each one all treated as different. 

Born on the day of birth and death, 

Each scar, mark, and year with meaning.

Collecting them and keeping them in a safe place,

Exposed to being thrown and isolated. 

Imaged to be clean, cold, smooth and new,

But seen to be dirty, warm, crusty and old. 

Each one are counted as one,

Each one all counted as equal,

Each one all treated as different.

 

Just like a penny.

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
Our world

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