The compression,

The constant obsession.

Fit in, speak out,

No fear, don't pout.

Weighing down, eating away,

At my mind, body, and soul, until all of them fray.

They chip away, 'till there is nothing left,

Only a husk, a shell, remains from the cruel theft.

Not thinking, just doing, one task after another,

Won't, cannot, care if I'm smothered.

Buried by the endless commands and compacting lies,

Uttered by the people in which I so deeply despise.

Yet I follow, willingly and unwillingly, to my demise,

Becoming just another factory-made cloud puff in their Utopian skies.

Why do I care if I fit in just fine?

Do I really not care if I'm not a perfectly straight line?

Being original turned out to be harder than it was once deemed,

Especially since my personality has been ripped away at the seams.

"Why can I not just be myself?!" I cry,

"Is being unique such a terrible crime?"

I just want to be, I just want to live,

I just want them to see the shimmering character that hides within.

Ridden with fear,

Afraid to step out.

Knowing of what lurks near,

But still wanting to pout.

After all, every flower needs a chance to bloom.

No matter what species, what color, it deserves a chance to create a boom,

An Earth-shattering quake.

Breaking apart petty thoughts, norms, rules, and any other oppression in it's wake.

"Let me go", I whisper one last time.

And somewhere in the darkness, a door unlocks with a chime.

A chime of freedom, a chime of relief,

A chime of emotion, a chime of peace.

A light shines out from the pitch black void, beckoning.

The luminescent gleam engulfs me, and with it, the world.

Their personalities sparkle once more.