Conformity, my dear
Do we make our own moulds?
Or are they made for us?
The real question becomes,
How are we to give a piece of ourselves
When that piece is a shard,
A shard of beautiful pure glass
How do you begin to understand
When that shard you hold so tight
To your closed mind
That it begins to slice your hands
Our words fall on deaf ears,
But we never learned to sign
Our chastised mouths tremble,
Needing to flow our unspoken thoughts
Like a faucet that has forgotten
What cool running water feels like
Like fairy tales that are burned into our brains
To feast like gluttony in form
But for what did we learn?
For who could ever love a beast anymore?
For now we are guarded,
Silenced,
Impure
But that is not how we will remain,
My dear
