Not Doing What I’m Told

Where does one find silence

When the windstorm is so loud?

Can truth reflect in darkness

When the mirrors have shattered to shrouds?

How can one see what stands ahead

If they refuse to lift their eyes?

If they walk through life content

With picking up the nearest disguise?

Is my truth diminished

From lack of years, or depth of chest?

Or rather, it erased,

By one deciding they know best?

My years of life are few,

And my story trimmed in gold.

And yet, I feel content

In not doing what I’m told.

I’ll seal my walls to make my silence,

Though the storm thunders away.

I’ll strike matches until my arms break

If I may source the smallest ray.

I won’t clean up the broken mirror,

I’d rather dress my feet in shoes.

And if one refuses to lift their gaze

I’ll lament the sights they lose.

No matter the method of the sale,

I doubt I can be sold.

Yes… I think I will be just fine

Not doing what I’m told.