I am like a dog trapped in a cage by society. Society is my owner. Telling me not to leave the cage even when the door is wide open. They give me commands. Sit. Stop. Stay. They tell me what to do. Every time I’m fed up with society and I try to speak out, they yell. Stop barking! Be quiet! So I do. I am quiet. Outside that cage is a world. The cage is unlocked. I can get out, but I don’t. They tell me to stay in the cage because the world is harsh and cruel. They tell me it’s for the best and for my own safety. So I obey my owner because I was trained to believe society is always right. They set rules for me and I follow. That is why I feel trapped. I can easily go. I have a choice but instead I sit and follow my orders. I don’t speak out. I don’t stand out. I just sit and stay. They all think I’m quiet and secretive and shy. I’m not. That isn’t the real me. There is a difference in who I truly am and who they believe I am. They made me that way. Just like the way cruel owners make a dog mean or lifeless.

    I was taught to be obedient

    I imagine the outside of that cage is a life worth living. We live in a beautiful world. I’m just too scared to see it because that cage hides the truth.  That cage is filled with fears and anxiety because of what my owner says about the past, the present and the future of my life. I just don’t know what the world truly is. I don’t really know what I truly am either.

    But for now, I guess I am just a dog trapped in a cage by society. Scared of what’s beyond my cage.

You are an oxymoron;
happy and sad,
bittersweet,
a fine mess,
and clearly misunderstood.

Being with you
is sweet torture
that leaves me
wanting more.

She has long, chocolate colored hair.
She has eyes that twinkle in the sunlight.
She has a smile that can light up even the gloomiest of rooms.
She has a figure that any girl would dream of having.
She has a beautiful face; not a blemish on it.
She has a warm heart that could melt a blizzard.
She has a way with words that is moving.
She has a scent of genuine and purity.
She has a mind that envisions so much, she could make me look blind.

I will always remember the day Grandma exclaimed how much of a joy my brother was. She would call him her perfect little flower.

As a child, it didn't mean much to me. But as I grew older, I came to realize the truth behind her words...

He was a daisy blooming in the spring. Where as I, a dead rose, slowly withering away. However, it wasn’t my choice, nor was it my brothers

Because a flower doesn’t get to choose what it grows into. It’s gardener determines how to raise it, how to treat it, and how to tend to it's individual needs.

Society was my gardener.

My point is, society labeled me as a dying rose, so eventually, I believed them.