This is what we were born into,Handed down a paintbrush to drift
across the canvas, to wander in
between reality and dreams in strange
hours of the night.
This here, our norm being the world’s exception.
Little drops here or there to which
Were viewed as odd,
The odds to get even with.
Unable to compare.
Comprehend the fact, fact is
This stencil isn’t sturdy enough
Lines are too ridged
A risk for us in a days work.
The world fears of it’s coming,
We fear we’ll miss it.
Misguided, mistaken, misinterpreted,
Mismatched, I’ve heard it all.
Catching stars in left field
Falling perfectly into place.
As if falling wasn’t a fear at all.
Wrapped from different cloths,
And printed on different papers;
These may seem like an error
May appear vulnerable.
Too strong to be handled by average
Minds, and when we pass by.
Even broken hands are mended
To provide the passing of time.
Wait out loud, we become society’s
Target. In and out we become their aim.
Blanks miss us and ammunition excites;
Fire rings within range but wounds heal
Anyway, and weaknesses triggers
The enemy could never gloat,
No not even in false victory.
We have become what they feared,
We have become the oxymoron.