My future was actually drawn,
and the sad part was I'm not the artist,
my parents maybe, other people, or the society,
I don't know really, I just knew I'm an art.
Displayed at the corners of the town,
judged by toxic critics who know nothing about paint,
if strokes were partly wrecked, they'll frown,
people won't like me, and my parents would start to faint.
Everyone wants to be a portrait,
changing themselves to take everyone's attention,
while I'm here dreaming to be a simple landscape,
a realistic one surrounded by oceans.
I was a blank canvas when they start to follow the social flow,
I became a portrait, layered and become a landscape,
covered again because trends changed so quick,
now I'm an abandoned painting who doesn't know what personality to present.
YOU ARE READING
Diary of an Introvert
PoetrySecond book of the The Dorks Are Shining. A poetry and some random thoughts filed to create a meaningful reflection of what society really is and how does life work.
