Chisel Slowly Chipping Me Away

You chip away at me as if I'm stone needing chiseled.

Chip a little here, roughly sand over there.

You think by chipping and sanding you are making me into something better.

Each chip has caused a deeper crack. Each rough sanding takes away some of my shine.

I can only be me with all of my imperfections.

I see the world different from you, it seems different than everyone else.

Is my viewpoint wrong?

Patch the cracks, gently shine where you sanded before there's a break.

Do you want me, or a pile of sand?