We bend and sway to meaningless whims,
Pushing and shoving with endless streams
Of tradition and orthodox spewing forth dreams,
Crafting us into characters: those picture-perfect films.
What happened to one's identity?
Of flaws amid the ridged form
Presented as unyielding to the critical eyes.
These diminished souls we have become
Forced to be cutout caricatures.
Hiding the truth to mirror expected perfection
Instead of pseudonymity,
Extenuate the differences, the inequalities,
That the raw nature of our individualities
Be not painted over for appearances,
For as a part of humanity
All have flaws amid their form.
