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Poem
They taught us young, the fine art of concealment,  
Threads of ideals tightly woven, hard to unbind.  
What is perfection? What is normal?  
These are the whispers we inherit, soaked in like breath 
From mothers, fathers, teachers, friends,  
We’re shaped, folded, pressed to fit the mould,  
To wear the mask and play the part,  
To “make it,” they say.

But what is this making we strive toward?  
A shallow milestone, a wage dictated by others' rules?  
Does it fill the soul, this endless climb  
To the pedestal society built for the obedient?  
The façade of perfection crumbles upon touch,  
Yet we chase, so desperate to measure up,  
Though we know, deep down,  
The mould was never made for us.

Eyes—they are intricate, windows to the soul,  
Yet they alone can do nothing, bound as they are  
To a restless mind, an untamed spirit.  
For the heart, wild and unruled, pulls in another direction,  
Craving something true, something real.  
The heart sways, despite the eyes, despite the mind,  
Yearning for connection, raw and sincere,  
Unmoved by the weight of societal disguise.

We are told: the perfect waist, the flawless skin,  
An endless checklist of “enough” 
A body to fit the bill, a face that pleases,  
Yet none of it matters,  
All illusions crafted to drain us dry,  
Leading us further down a thorny path,  
Where every step bleeds,  
And at the end, we ask—was it worth it?

Why try to contort into shapes never ours to hold?  
Why chase the mask when the heart only wants truth?  
Why not let the beast within bloom,  
Like the beauty in a tale of a rose and a spell?  
Let the path be yours, unmarked by another’s hand,  
And see the wonders it holds, raw and wild.

Break free, let the mask fall,  
Let the shackles clatter at your feet.  
Let the eyes see the world as it is,  
Cruel and bright, terrible and beautiful,  
A race not meant to be run, but to be savoured.  
Be free, like a butterfly loosed from the chrysalis,  
Not perfect, not ordinary—just real.
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