We decide our Destiny

Unborn yet already
A path for the being
Has already been chosen
By those that are not them.
A glorified path to become
Another cog in this big
Inescapable machine
We call society.

Born fully healthy, they shouted,
But is it true? I feel the child is Already half dead.
Unwanted and unfortunate
They have already stepped
Towards someone's path of glory,
But their failure which soon they will detest.

The doctors shouted,
The family rejoiced,
"Hurray! The child is developing just fine!"
Praises to the mighty lord,
Praises to the child,
Alas! The approval doesn't last for long,
This environment is unsteady
Even though it's working like a routine machine,
Just unfit for the angels
To grow without fear, properly.

Spending years, while learning to please,
Instead of teaching how to exist on one's own,
Is it maturity to grow like such,
To be expected to mould into a being
That never causes concerns or plights,
No matter of the magnitude of fate and circumstances.

And if they dared to be a bit different,
Labelled as an inconvenience by their maker,
But if they can be shown off,
Then they are put on a pedestal
As a public model,
A display of perfection,
Quiet, reserved and saying yes to every nod of the maker,
Asking others to evolve like such,
A miniature of their puppet master!
But they are not the angels,
That they were destined

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