How convenient is it, that my life was written in the stars?
Well, I can't reach there, so who's to tell me it's not a farce?
Apparently I'll always be in danger, that's what I've been told,
just hang around too long alone in the dark and I won't make it old.
The exterior I never chose, dictates the way I should dress,
it dictates my behavior, my demeanor; whom I'd try to impress.
The people around you always know best, so they said,
but then I got stuck in their narrative, thought I lost my head.
Before we start living our lives, the path has already been drawn,
erasing our direction, blocking pathways where none will spawn.
Repressing our freedom, we march on thinking we'll find it;
our prince, our house, our creatures, that we feed the same bull shit.
I prefer improvising rather than a show,
that I shouldn't rehearse to a degree,
and always the weird little duck for trying to erase the paving they wanted for me.
Trying to see underneath what my real life should look like,
when I explain, they laugh because I can't possibly take my own hike.
Of course they know what my core looks like and what stones I'd like to tap,
Caressing one's ego is the norm alas, keep dreaming I'd ever tap that lap.
Why does a self-paved path always happen to be in the red zone?
Some appreciate a rebel, others think they decide whereto I hone.
I get carried away sometimes, taking stones that were never mine,
that's when I struggle and fight, and realize my path does not align.
Shapes and sizes that don't belong with me disfigure the road,
blinding me into choices, mindsets and promises that were never owed.
Apart from others letting me pave my own way in life,
there were stones I sculpted, where I had in my mind a shape of strife.
They weren't narrated by you, but narrated after you,
even in me there's a director who wants the show complete nor true.
Growing into a foundation which I built my life upon,
these stones are far too big, and I could never measure thereon.
Regression isn't turning back at all, it's forgetting the art of sculpting,
to re-follow these curves and junctions,
for Renée's will be reconstructing.
To carve out my path; made with crooked and obscene stones,
unwelcome within society's walking parks with all the same tones.
My path doesn't look as pretty as everyone's pre-paveds,
but it's one of the few paths that has it's maker engraved.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Collection
PoetryDear readers, We live in a vastly complicated world fabricated by humans. To me that makes things very confusing and emotional. It's a way of life, a pressure, and stress that I cannot place into my life. My personality doesn't fit within our Wester...
