Angels (If You Could Call Them That)

Unborn and already

A path has been chosen

By those that are not them -

To become another cog

In the inescapable machine that is society.

Born - early, half dead.

A step toward failure in

The eyes of their creator

For what they cannot control -

To be fixed and set right

On the path that they will learn to detest.

Developing - on time

To the doctors’ surprise.

The creator gives praise,

But the approval never lasts -

The environment is unsteady and

Unfit for angels to properly grow.

Learning - to please

Instead of exist as one’s own,

Matured in the wrong ways

For an angel of that age -

Molded to never cause concern

No matter the magnitude of circumstance.

An inconvenience to their maker

Unless they could be shown off

For the benefit of the creator -

In private often belittled

And ignored for so much as being a child.

In public a model,

A display of perfection -

Quiet, reserved. Listens well.

A miniature of their puppetmaster

(As what the creator allowed to be seen).

Yearning - to deviate

To become their own

Without the wrath that

Has always followed a stray

From the carefully chosen path

That their master has made so

Impossibly unachievable.

Desperate - attempting to remove

Their wings, Trying everything to

Fall from grace -

To be cast aside and never acknowledged

Or cared for again.

An attempt to be free

Executed in the worst ways -

Broken and bleeding they

Almost always return to

The way it was before as

Their creator sees nothing but

A way to start over and

Mold them once again

Into something unattainable.

For the rest of eternity

All the angels who taste individuality

Pursue endlessly that

Momentary tinge of

Identity; willing to

Try anything and

Everything to become

Angels of their own

Once again, well

If you could call them that.