I\'m tired, and I\'ve tried.
I trace the lines the others draw with ease,
The polished benchmarks set in careful rows;
I try to bend my spirit to decrees,
To reap the harvest that the garden grows.
I plant the seeds in rhythmic, measured lines,
And water every hope with desperate care,
Yet while their bloom in perfect sunlight shines,
My garden strays to wild and tangled air.
How strange to hold the compass in my hand,
To know the north and seek the steady path,
But find my feet upon a shifting sand,
Defying every rule and aftermath.
I chase the standard, mimic every stride,
I stretch my reach until my fingers fray,
But something in the marrow will not hide,
And drifts, like smoke, a different, quiet way.
It is a lonely, hollow-hearted weight,
To watch them measure life by golden scales,
While I sit outside the heavy, bolted gate,
And watch the wind fill all the wrong-side sails.
I try to be the thing they deem as \"right,\"
To sharpen edges till they gleam like steel,
But I am morning mist and fading light,
Bound to a rhythm I can only feel.
Perhaps the fault is not in lack of will,
Or failing strength to force the mold to set,
But standing on a strange and solitary hill,
Where standards are a language—unmet, and unmet yet.