Unborn and already
A path has been chosen
By those that are not them -
To become another cog
In the inescapable machine that is society.

Born - early, half dead.
A step toward failure in
The eyes of their creator
For what they cannot control -
To be fixed and set right
On the path that they will learn to detest.

Developing - on time
To the doctors’ surprise.
The creator gives praise,
But the approval never lasts -
The environment is unsteady and
Unfit for angels to properly grow.

Learning - to please
Instead of exist as one’s own,
Matured in the wrong ways
For an angel of that age -
Molded to never cause concern
No matter the magnitude of circumstance.

An inconvenience to their maker
Unless they could be shown off
For the benefit of the creator -
In private often belittled
And ignored for so much as being a child.

In public a model,
A display of perfection -
Quiet, reserved. Listens well.
A miniature of their puppetmaster
(As what the creator allowed to be seen).

Yearning - to deviate
To become their own
Without the wrath that
Has always followed a stray
From the carefully chosen path
That their master has made so
Impossibly unachievable.

Desperate - attempting to remove
Their wings, Trying everything to
Fall from grace -
To be cast aside and never acknowledged
Or cared for again.
An attempt to be free
Executed in the worst ways -
Broken and bleeding they
Almost always return to
The way it was before as
Their creator sees nothing but
A way to start over and
Mold them once again
Into something unattainable.

For the rest of eternity
All the angels who taste individuality
Pursue endlessly that
Momentary tinge of
Identity; willing to
Try anything and
Everything to become
Angels of their own
Once again, well
If you could call them that.