We are the facilitators of our own creation

To face one self’s is confrontation rimming on the abyss of intrusion.
Almost as if my image knows something about me that I don’t.
Refusing to admit nor confess
Refusing to please nor apologies
To treat lightly
To inhale
To breathe
To be human (whatever the fuck that means)
To give in to the paradox that in order to live, you must be.
Someone explain to me, please.
How one is supposed to [be] when we outcast the individual.
Ridicule the peculiar.
Merge the distinct.
And most crimson of all, grayscale the colored.
Is it a prerequisite to clip my wings before walking with the test?
Must I kill the light of my vibrancy to reside with the dull?
Will you only accept me once I’ve pleased the requirements of the elite?
Fuck THE elite.