Poetry speaks, I listen

Reflection

I look down to see feet in old worn out sandals.
I notice how they are smeared with dirt.
I examine a body carpeted with years of battle scars.
I look in the mirror and see a person I do not recognize.
A stranger that looks dirty and disheveled.
For years I have been told this person I see in the mirror is my reflection, but my reflection is not a reflection of me, only the harshly painted outside.
These ratty clothes and tarnished body are not who I truly feel I am.
This body is not one I want to possess. It appears I am dressed in the clothes of a poor man, they hang off me like I'm a clothes rack at a store long forgotten.
I can scarce believe my eyes what have I aloud myself to become?
This is not who I am on the inside.
I can't believe this reflection.
I won't believe this reflection.