Poems and Stuff

Boxes and Paper

Everyone asks everyone how they identify

In one form or another 

Trying to put you in a box,

One that's all perfect and clean,

But do they not realize that we are human?

They keep trying to "comprehend"

They want us to "make sense"

As if we were unreadable, nonsensical before

The boxes trap us in a cage of definition and identity.

All by grand design

I stand here watching as people identify themselves,

Some are confused,

And give the same panicked face you would get if you asked them to recite pi.

But most lie, 

lying who's a friend to most.

So I just sit in the par and watch as they pass by,

The liars, the thieves of information and the lost,

Asking myself why?

Why are we classified like science experiments?

When I look at myself and ask who am l, 

I respond with a sister, student, and so much more,

But society says I am only what they can define, 

What they see as "concrete" and "normal"

To this I respond, I am a person, not a number.

I define also as moody,

Because my mood  sometimes changes just like the weather here in New England,

I allow my moods to define my likes, my tastes,

But sometimes they are unclear and confusing.

For example, when I talk to most others my age,

I feel out of place. 

But give me a book,

Some food, animals, nature,

My mom and friends,

And like an ant to its anthill, 

I am home and where I am meant to be.

Yet it's not "right"

Because I am, according to expectations,

A Lazy, technologically addicted millennial with no

Self-respect, a habit for making up problems,  and being self-centered.

However, I change this belief.

For how can we judge the many by the one.

When most of these descriptors make up few people I know,

When most of these snapshot words are not consistent with my character.

Yet the box defines me by societal laws.

This box definition judges me.

I am never above it,

I am just a lone fish swimming up the stream of expectations.