Onward we move,
so sure of our being.
We are never stopping.
We are shaping, shifting.
Slowly molding to something we're not.
Always staying in constant motion,
allowing our carnal selves to pressure sides.
It causes us to change.
Still we let emotion and anger to control.
Conforming.
We're not the same,
but we must be close enough.

Onward we move,
not sure of our being.
Seeking to fit,
those spaces that are not our own.
Shoving our way in.
Allowing the corners of our bodies
to crease,
to tatter,
to fall apart.
We begin faking ourselves.
We're not the same.
We stare into the water;
We are shocked to find ourselves anew:
not the same.
Not who we were supposed to be.
That reflection must not be ours.
It's everyone else's.
Who are we?
Another swept by the mainstream