How I Was Made

I am what I was molded into

From the time I was born

I had people press their ideals

Into my skin

Until I had bruises they called


They imbued me with things

Regarding how I should act

How I should behave

But never how to be me.

It was ironic

How, later, they told me

To just be me,

But how was I supposed to know

Who that was

When I never had the chance.

I am clay

For the people who surround me

Have always pressed and pressed

Into the crevices of my soul

Until I became

What they wanted me to be

This poem is about: 


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