Conformity extends from your shoulder blades as a feathered instrument
Of flight,
Invisible yet still Inertial,
Carrying you towards the horizon,
Always towards that endless horizon,
And as long as you keep your head on your shoulders,
They say it takes you to your ideal life,
Your place in the world.
So you get told "don't let your head stray into the clouds,"
You've got places to be,
And you'll burn away if you get to the atmosphere,
They say that flying too close to the sun is a one way ticket to losing control,
Cause the sun is real doubtful you see,
It'll start you on a spiraling spiral plummet to the ground below,
The fall isn't supposed to be an easy one,
Yet, your wings still feel oh so heavy,
You yearn for the fall anyways.
Despite all the whispered comforts and the well placed fears,
Conformity lays heavy in your chest,
Desperate to get free,
It leaves you weighted down and wondering how bad letting go could possibly be.
That's just how things go,
The creative don't do well caged,
This is not what they are meant to be.
