So I don't fit the mold
of everything you wanted me to be,
everything you weren't.
Why should I?
I am not a statue,
to be cast once
and placed on a pedestal,
unchanging the rest of my existence.
I am not stone nor bronze nor clay.
I am a flower,
different colors year after year,
unpredictable in how I'll bloom
or which storms I'll be able to weather,
and I, too, need space and sunlight.
And at least the gardener, in the end,
realizes he has no control.

So do not try to fit me into your mold,
to keep me sheltered in the dark;
a flower could never be the statue you want
and I am done pretending to try.

04/28/2002

Posted on 04/28/2002
Copyright © 2024 Amanda J Cobb