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Bridge-Crossers

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Brain still small and infantile
All the while, it's hidden with smiles.
Everyone around, the same.
Cookie-cutter social butterflies.

Don't fit in this dress,
Feel like a mess that stands out.
Try another one on for size
Perfect fit to everyone else's eyes.

March around like the perfect army.
Synchronized with them safe and soundly.
Jump, eat, sleep with one another.
When one falters, there isn't even a shudder.
From anyone.
Just keep marching on.

Have no cares, no consequences.
So everyone jumps off the bridge.
Doubt fills those infantile brains.
Ignored, no shame.

Rooms spinning, nights go unremembered.
That's never okay, but the ember stays lit.
Falling in, deeper and deeper.
What happened to the diary keepers?
The worshipers?
The individuals and independents?

Forgotten in the rush of society.
Replaced with the typical variety.
Ignorance is bliss in the eyes of youth.

Jumping off the bridge.
Seems like the only option to the majority.
But there is a select few.
That simply cross it.

That stand alone.
Alone but never lonely.
They are the lone wolves.
The bridge-crossers.
The individuals.

Strange and unique creatures.
Never understood, never hypocrite preachers.
Always head-strong, independent.
Never falter with the shallower breaths of others.
Keep crossing while the jumpers are ignored.

No, not judgmental.
Just ethically correct.
Find dresses that seem fit to their own eyes.
Ones that wait their time to be sky-high.

The lone wolves,
Bridge-crossers,
Individuals.





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Apeggy said...
Feb. 17, 2011 at 5:19 pm
i love this poem. nicely done.
 
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