Poetry — Some get scarred in this cookie cutter universe,
when someone says you don’t belong.
You’re somehow lacking this or that,
you’re much too round,
you’re just too flat,
you don’t fit in,
and you will never ever be enough,
you hear them smirk and say. But in this cookie cutter universe
sometimes molded out of clay,
pen to paper
we become perforated, punctuated syllables,
like an indelibly constructed haiku
of sticks and stones,
uncaged, strapless, braless,
one size fits all are not the words we wear
just trying to breathe,
trying to be,
dancing under the scorching sun,
like tangled clouds
crocheted scars
and the platinum moon
shining brightly
in a cookie cutter sea of stars,
each one burning like a lantern
just enough to light the ink-stained night.
