Expectations

This world is small

when looking at the universe,

it's easy to see

the smattering of stars

stretching across the sky

each one an infinite sun.

So how has this world

become the only one that matters?

This society that takes

youth and breaks it, molds it

into some gruesome plastic model

where the only breaths available

are poisoned.

Every word

in this world

is a dagger,

cutting me away.

Because society has become

a tangled maze of

unrealistically high expectations,

I am stretched paper thin,

staring between

two sides of a coin

unable to tell which face

will end up on top:

mine, or the one

everyone wants to see,

that isn't really me

but what I must pretend to be

and I have become fragile

in the struggle for

not only me,

but this world humanity

has created

trembles with the tension

of being pulled

three different directions,

the stress of a weak foundation

finally showing

as the concrete yearns

to go its separate way.

Don't hold us together

the pillars of strength

scream

we aren't as tough

as the world believes

and we can shatter

all too easily.

But nobody listens

because humanity

is already occupied,

admiring it's reflection

and applying concealer

instead of addressing the problem.

Glass-like steel

breaks strongly

not a single crack

but many

draw an intricate web

across the surface

to catch

a splintered reflection.

Fractured mirrors

turn everything

to pieces

and it's impossible

to see beauty

when staring

into your own eyes

if all you can see

is how the world

draws lines

across faces.

And I pierce my skin,

this needle sowing holes

with each flick of the wrist

as I tack stitches

across those lines,

trying to sew myself together.

But society picks

at the thread,

fraying the string to replace

every inch of me

not perfection

until even my heart

has been substituted

From flesh

to plastic mold

I am too hard

to survive this brittle world

without becoming

something

I am unable to love.

And in this universe so large

I can't see how it matters

that I have one hair

out of place,

or that I'm not flawless

I was never meant to be,

but it's the only thing

everyone else

is looking at.

This poem is about: 
Me
My country
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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