Tiny Knives
Continuously pricking my skin
Making the cold unbearable
The dark of the world
Crashing onto my shoulders
Tiny People
Their blank faces smiling
Watching
Mocking my every move
They expect me to stay strong
How?
They berate me with sharp words
Just like those knives in my head
Chopping away at my light
At my joy
I am shoved into the box
Over and over
Coaxed into the light
"Be yourself"
Then those tiny people with their tiny hands
Pay me tiny glares
Scrunch me down in the box
Cut me to size so that I may
"Fit in"
Is that possible?
How am I supposed to be myself
In a world where everyone is expected to be the same?
I think the answer is to ignore
The ice, the knives, the box
The shrill voices from the tiny people
Them whose minds have been trimmed
By those who think they make "normal"
Like tiny gardeners
Tending the World Estate
Like rushing waters
Causing the riverbed pebbles to smooth
We are fighting a battle
Against those who make "normal"
Many have lost
Physically and mentally.
Some are still here,
Too many have moved on.
The tiny people
Who rule the world,
Who are oblivious to the uprising,
The war that is waging
With the people who refuse to sit in the box.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Collection 2016
PoetryThis is a small poetry collection I figured I would publish. Enjoy! :) -Ali J.T.
