be yourself

I am

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I am
not just another girl
who sits patiently and
waits to be served on a silver platter

taken care of
yet pushed aside
waiting and the awaited

thoughtful but unspoken

I am
not another woman
who layers her face in shades of color
as if to place it on a pedestal

afraid of the eyes that stare
with vicious judgment
and the murmurs that await

outspoken by all those around

I am
an individual
strong and independent
I cut my own paths

never looking around
never seeking attention
laying a hand on the shoulder of all those around me

I am undoubtedly me

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I am me.

Posted on Updated on

I am me.

 

You are you.

 

But she is her

and he is him.

 

One word:

 

Conformity.

 

The word weighs down on those around it.

Crushing every ounce of their individuality

until it has been replaced by a new word:

 

 

Fear of being different.

Fear of failure.

Fear of being looked down upon.

 

A young girl sits in the back of the room.

Ahead of her are girls who have been molded into one:

curled hair,

bright shirts,

expensive jeans,

and Nikes.

A boy sits at the park

and watches as every other boy his age is asked to play basketball.

He looks at his cheap white sneakers and knows he’s an outcast.

He has not conformed

but he wants to.

 

Three words:

 

Be. An. Individual.

 

Be who you are.

Not the person the world wants you to be.

I am my own person

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I am my own person

(mostly) unhindered by the world in which I live

a web of tangled strings tug at my heart

telling me

who

what

when

where

and

why

but never asking

this poison seeps through the vessels and veins in my body

in an attempt to affect and effect

the person I (have become) am

those who tell rather than ask are no longer their own person

their lives hindered by the world about them

crushed by a society that tries to same

(or shame)

everyone

into one unified person

don’t be afraid to ask

and don’t be afraid to be the person you were meant to be

the person you are

yourself

it sits in a field

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it sits in a field

alone

bent and broken

at the stem

graying flower petals

touching the dying grass below

many falling off

with the swift gusts of winds

continually blowing past

 

at one time

it had flourished

the first of its kind

its beautiful

blue petals

catching the sign light

standing out

in the field of green

and many more sprouted around it

creating a patch of blue

so fluid

it could have been mistaken

for a small pond

 

the days of its vibrancy

have come and gone

days that were before the rain

that fell so hard

the large drops bounced off the ground

like a ball on a court

rain that washed away the new growth

of blue that had sprung from the ground

and weighted down the top of the tallest flower

until it bent and snapped under pressure

 

the rain had plans for this flower

plans that would stop it from growing

plans that didn’t want it to survive

didn’t want it take the breaths it needed to survive

stripped of its ability to live

it withered

and by the time

glorious beams of golden rod

shined down on it

it had given up its will to live

crushed under the weight of the world