The Smart Ones are Born.

We are six girls trapped in a tiny room and
We hope to be discovered for the things that we were not raised to be.
We played our mantra of animosity and tap danced to its horrid rhythms. 
But our senses are not dampened.

Our minds are drowned in dreams
Our shoulders laden with anxiety,
How far must we go in this bittersweet story?
We hope to be discovered for the things we were not raised to be.

Monkeys, they say, raised to marvel at yellow fruit.
The catch, we’re told is to kill for it.
Have you thought for a second that we might deserve more
than a tiny morsel?
Give us our ration.

Classes, classes, classes.
Isn’t it saddening
That we desire only passes?
To join the many masses
And continue the endless cycle.
We hope to be discovered for the things we were not raised to be.

Has time abandoned us?
Maybe.
But we have not been played.
One last and final act remains.
We do this not only for ourselves,
It is for the ones that are still unborn,
And we will sit back and watch
As our mistakes become their torches.

   

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