The dark colored eyes that hides inside
holding the mold to every fiber that was once a destructive storm through the night.
How do we transverse, move, breathe, converse?
Is it through our naked bodies, as we scantily glide down the pole?
Is it through our colored faults, we ever so bravely bare for one to mock?
Is it through or demons, we haphazardly possess
squirming and itching to break free of this mess?
The darkness of our eyes only hides the truth inside.
Battered and torn, with crimson anguish running down our soft cheeks,
we gaze upon a world where our light yearns to shine through.
"Shine" said the master.
"Shine if you must, but you'll never make it. You'll never go far"
You'll subject yourself solemnly and inherently to the subpar.
By default, we choose to enter and banter and meander and weather
the storms of our frights, likened to a bruised and contorted ball on a gruesome night
only to come out that same bereft little child.
Is this our destiny? Our right of passage?
If we were to speak, one would hear the warble plead for societal release.