Oh, I am but the rock that fits perfectly within the palm of your hand.
That rock that weathers and changes.
Am I the Gneiss, quartzite, flint, or Schist?
What do you see, as you look at my repetitive shape and my humdrum color?
Do you see a tool for hurt?
Or a gem for which you will collect and savor?
Maybe I am the rock you will skim upon the water,
Leaving me to sink and drown in an unfamiliar place?
Oh, I am more than the common rock that you held within your hand.
With each layer, a story you would never understand.
Unlike you, I am merely of substance formed without love.
Without human feelings of conscious.
The shell of the once living,
The once seeing and breathing.
I am the backbone to your existence,
For which you have walked upon and pissed on.
Despite this I am solid,
Examine my properties, and take note of my fractures and cleavage.
They are unchanged, but strong.