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
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
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
I am me.
You are you.
But she is her
and he is him.
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until it has been replaced by a new word: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:
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.
Be. An. Individual.
Be who you are.
Not the person the world wants you to be.
I am my own person
(mostly) unhindered by the world in which I live
a web of tangled strings tug at my heart
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
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
it sits in a field
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
catching the sign light
in the field of green
and many more sprouted around it
creating a patch of blue
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
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