In a crowded room,
voices blend,
like colours spilt on a canvas,
each one a line,
a rule,
an opinion that stitches the air.
I stand at the edge,
where the laughter rolls by like waves,
and I feel like a stone,
tossed but not buried,
waiting for meaning,
waiting to be heard.
Every move I make,
feels like a dance on thin ice,
a slip, a crack,
the weight of choices
freezing me in place.
Why is it,
that when I reach out,
the world pulls back?
I used to soar,
like summer birds tracing
curves in the sky,
but now I’m tangled,
like a vine lost in shadows,
searching for sunlight,
but grasping at air.
They say, 'Do this, don't do that,'
scripted lines from voices
I never chose,
bound in rules that box me in,
cracking my reflection
into shards that don’t fit.
I want to scream,
to break free of this mould,
to whisper my truth
into the winds,
but silence wraps around me,
a quiet thief,
leaving me with pieces,
that don’t look like me.
I wander through the noise,
trying to find a place
where my heart beats loudly,
where I can wear my skin like armour,
not a weight,
not a shame.
Can the seas calm,
can the winds change?
Can I find my voice
in a world that claps,
but never hears,
that applauds the safe,
and boo’s the strange?
I long for moments
where rules are whispers
and opinions fade like half-remembered dreams,
where I can draw a real breath,
from the depths of my soul,
and simply be.
So here I stand,
rough around the edges,
learning to stitch my scraps of self,
into a tapestry of resilience,
to challenge the echoes,
and reclaim my song.
The world will sway,
and twist like the trees in storms,
but I’m finding my roots,
in the soil of who I am—
a swirl of colours,
no need for permission
to belong.
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