The Pain and Struggle Within

“Happy Little Pill” brings color to the skies of many.

As an alien with less strength than the Man of Steel,

And a zombie with the vision of the wrong corpse,

Instead of the sight creating the path of magic,

I see why Chris Daughtry says that good is as endangered as the bald eagle

Which leads to the brief escapes Troye Sivan documents.

I know that some are accidental paintings,

I know some would question their purpose,

However, they're unable to wash themselves away.

They are marked with millions of holes,

Since the world doesn't hesitate,

To strike them with artificial storms,

If they were Kent-bold,

They'd reveal the acid they really are by possibly burning the world,

Instead of roaming the jungles,

Of humanity's ignorance and carelessness.

Even with the contact lenses, some people are too blind to see.

No one asked to be the bird that left the nest,

While still in an eggshell.

No one asked to be a book written in a language unfamiliar.

Society expects us to be the flawless robots,

But, like Wall-E, we have personalities of our own,

And hermit crab out of our shells,

When society is occupied by the distance of the sea,

Since the storms would help them drown,

If they explored us further.

Some close friends understand,

The different moods within the guitar strings of the misfits,

And know of more layers to the stories,

Within the underrated songs.

Meanwhile, the unlucky ones have no choice,

But to quickly become shut doors,

When their families are near.

All that's known is that the misfits are their own people,

Though the families purposely throw out the memory,

Just to refill their pistols,

Constantly erasing the possibility,

That there's more to the group of stars than everyone sees.

World, I am not as ignorant

As you love to try to convert me to be.

I am Bigger Thomas,

With the apple peel portraying stupidity,

Making my pale, fearful insides unsuspecting.

Society claims it wants me to open my door,

Yet wants to use violent words as a tool,

To silence the truth,

That it contains many reactants,

To me erupting emotional lava

Making me burn others with my pain.

At this rate, I fulfill its loud unspoken wish,

Of being the shadow hiding in the darkness,

While hoping enough light shines on me.

Therefore, I become addicted to the prohibited “hope."

Hope that maybe this ugly duckling,

Has true beauty at the coming of age.

The question is, “When will I be a swan?”