The flip coin of tradition

My wings were broken
as I fell on my knees
boxed up
in calculated
measured dimensions,
locked and chained
in ideas 
and judgments.
The spark of life from my childhood
hid in my innermost being,
protecting itself
shielding its fragile existence.
As I fell apart,
the monstrous forms
transformed my body,
took away all its beauty.
Innocence was fooled,
obedience exploited,
dignity trampled in the dirt.
Visions cluttered my mind
of closed doors,
high enclosures…
I turned against myself
and teared at what was left of me.
All was lost,
even nature broke away from me.
A need to please,
a wish to be loved,
and the necessity to follow rules and lines.
Deep was the well
that housed me.
I carried my weapons
and sharpened my swords,
filled my ears with screams
and waited for the enemy.
Ironic is the hand of fate
that guides us
to what we dread most.
The childhood that opened my horizons
poured sweetness in my heart,
with tradition that spoke
to the spirit inside,
the silence of contentment,
the labor of love.
All came at an exorbitant price.
When adulthood pried the door,
it shackled my life,
restricted my views,
molded my presence.
As long as I fit the box,
all else
was bad
thrown to the pigs…
As long as my head bowed,
and I was always available,
my life was spared.  

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