What is this brand I bear
mark I wear
I swear
I must be tagged,
Bagged, and marketed
Like a plastic doll
Well, fuck it all
Tired of being used,
hated; Fated to be relegated,
Slated for disposable status
What am I?
Marble to your Pygmalion?
Sculpi without formation?
Are you the God who’d
Cure me of my self?
Discard the wealth
Of who I am, all I am
To make anew
Your angelou?
Your precious Barbie?
Your perky stephord dream?
I could scream
But you took my voice
My choice
And replaced it
with your expectations,
now my patience is gone
along with hope, faith, youth
it’s no use
my face is a mask,
a label, a purple triangle,
a yellow star
you use to categorize me
chastise me
for not becoming
your bubbly, athletic antithesis
of me
of the real me
the thinking, dreaming, breathing me
heaving with sensuality and thought
I will not
Apologize for being real.
We all have flaws
I have my share,
But my whole self
is not an error
to be revamped
and cheerfully stamped
"new and improved"
or to be supplied
on your demand.

It kinda goes no where, but oh well. I wrote this about a year ago, I guess. Just found it in word. I probably wrote it around the same time I wrote "Brides by design".