Everybody gets influenced by others from a young age. We listen to others, because our minds are blank. A blank canvas to be drawn on. We don't know anything. We need to learn. We need our canvas to be filled. We need our parents, friends and relatives to start our eternal masterpiece.

They show us the world, no matter if it's our world.
They show us what they believe is right, no matter if it is for us.

We don't question them. We trust them to be right. We trust in what they tell us. We trust in their word.

We trust them, and they exploit it.
They tell us what we should be. Who we should be.


They paint their picture on our canvas with the most vivid colours though all we needed was a bland foundation.


They treat our precious canvas like their personal playground.
Our names, genders and political views are all poorly drawn on it, because they wanted them to be.

Everything on our canvas is only there because they want it to be. They dictate our paintings. Our lives.

So much of our knowledge is what the people around us tell us. And we don't know if they're wrong. We believe them blindly. But we shouldn't. We should paint our canvas for ourselves. We are to decide what rightfully belongs on our canvas and what should be erased. The one's around us shouldn't define us. We're not them. We're ourselves. We are special.

They show us their world and we acknowledge it, but we'd rather build our own.
They show us their believes, but ours are different.


They tell us who we are.
But we aren't.


We aren't who they tell us we are. Sometimes we are. Most of the time not. Just because they tell us our name, we don't have to use it. Just because they tell us whom to like and whom to despise, we don't have to.


We're writing our own book.
Our own story.

Building our own world.


Painting our own masterpiece.

Floating in the wind,
I wish I could remain,
Unnoticed went a hint,
Took long enough to say.

A continuous pattern of warm summer days and rainy winter nights, existing for the mere task to pull me further down into my grave.
Rigged against me with rewards, only for punishment to come.

The aching cold stings,
Snow blankets on every roof,
Though it sparkles bright,
Weakened by its freezing fate,
Falling from the skies above.

For all they know is what they see,
In deeper truth they miss belief.