Confirmation of conformity

Me squeezed into a too tight, uptight, cassock shaped mould,

Hold on – who am I?

Without wanting to wander into the hazy dazed realms of nostalgia,

I remember, I was someone else once.

Formation – anaesthetising the self out of me.


If I keep doing these things, your rituals,

If I stick to the prescription – ‘take twice a day before meals’

I’ll be formed.

Forged in the fire of the machine.

The machine fed on the same fuel as centuries ago;



Now I’m not saying there are no edges to be knocked off of me,

On the contrary,

I am a multi-faceted collection of rough edges.

I am too much

Too little

Too feisty

Too timid

Too limited in knowledge

Too quick to judge

Too cruel to be kind

Too much

Too much


But maybe just one of these edges might cut through the shit

The same old that holds up the barriers

That stops people in their tracks

That acts like it holds all the answers

That controls power with white knuckles clenched

Entrenched systems

Suffocating, stifling

I don’t fit in

I can’t fit in

I won’t fit in.



Image courtesy of Morna Simpson



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