From the hand of a man, they call him \"The Divine,\"
My blueprint etched, my complex design.
He wove my essence, my breath, my deep core,
And whispered, \"God errs not, forevermore.\"
Yet I fumble, I falter, a dissonant chord,
A whisper of chaos, unheard, unexplored.
If perfection\'s his promise, and flaws are unknown,
Then why do I stand here, so utterly alone?
They see a reflection, a purpose so grand,
A piece of the plan, blessed by his hand.
But the mirror shows breakage, a fracture within,
A shape that just doesn\'t quite fit where they pin.
Am I error, or truth in a world built on lies?
A glitch in the matrix, beneath watchful eyes?
If he makes no mistakes, then what does that say
Of the ache in my soul, stretching night into day?
I am not the ideal, the vision they hold,
Not the story of grace, perfectly told.
I am simply myself, with these doubts and these scars,
A whisper of stardust, eclipsed by the stars.
I\'m not who you think, not the dogma you bind,
Just a soul in the shadows, uniquely designed.
I am me, just me, with this burden and plea,
Oh, to break from the molds, and just finally be free.