There is no middle
There is either here or there.
Our compulsive drive to choose a path
Adhering to it
Not ever faltering to question
The imperfection of it all.
Everyone has got a brush stroke
Similar to the next being's
And on their canvas is you
And us all
We must be defined.
To come to life, we must have names,
Titles, definitive emotions within which there are protocols
If you feel A you must expect B
If you are 1 then you simply cannot be 2.
We forget that humans are florals
Prints like ankaras, in several different shapes
In multiple colors
Collages that words cannot quite capture
And ever changing like attires
Molding only to umold
Holding just to unfold
That you and I are little growths of what is to come tomorrow
A person we will be
Within which we will see today's child
But only remnants of that
That that child within tomorrow's being has a number of child's within it
The same child, only different
And that if we were to searxh within long enough, that child may offer more questions than answers
And that what makes questions divine is the reality of the truth;
That one truth, that nothing is entirely true at all.
While you're strengthening our boarders
Enclosing you and us all into this safety
While you are busy brushing yourself into the box within
Ensuring that you bolden the borders
Pinpointing the one thing that you should be
Oh dear one,
Remember that the earth is round
Hell, even trees
That which boxes are made of,