Poems for the Sad and Weary

Maps

I used to draw up maps,

Wonderfully sketched directions

That pinpointed possible pathways

I could take to reach the sparkling locations

Of clarity and spectacular classifications.

I used to fit my shoulders into

The contours of the ends of spectrums

That dictated the stereotypes of who

And what a character should have. And

I regret trying so hard because

There is nothing wrong in breaking the mould

And letting go to the force

That carries us all along to the sound of music

And freedom and emotions and wishes.

I think I feared becoming a contradiction

And a copycat but fishes

Swim around in school and they don't have the problem

Of fitting in and striking a balance

And partly, I think they just don't care

So that is the shocking difference.

I've come to see this opposing-stereotype-issue

That fit into the categories of statements and soul-radios.

I think there is as big as an elephant

That lie between the two kinds of playdoh

That we use to shape ourselves. Being different

Is not just for the sake of rebelling because it's cool

To be out-of-this-world, successfully standing out amongst

Our very own sex. Only a fool

Would try to mix different ends into a bowl

That doesn't complement the harmony

Of simply existing as a round character,

A square edge that is filed into a symphony

That only you can hear. There is no

Competition, no proposition

Of being special in this world. There is just being you,

Just the way you are

And that is the true speculation.