Humans are fragile creatures,
Swept around by gusts of wind
Like autumn leaves that are brittle.

The gusts are the words of others,
Battering us into submission.

We allow society to torture us,
To decide upon our development,
Like we are the book and
Everyone else is the author.

But I want to be my own author.
Don't you want that as well?
I am not a ******* leaf,
And neither are you.

Have strength, take some from me.
Some days I have little but
Would happily give it to you.

Have strength, it is worth it,
To be your own author.
To shape your own tale,
To live life deliberately.