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Such a stereotype, how loud it speaks, Before I open my mouth, the arena already critiques. It watches how I dress, how I stroll, how I stand, And builds its assumptions with out touching my hand.
“You're too quiet, ought to be shy,” they say, Or “You're too bold, ought to be wild in each way.” If I communicate with passion, they name it rage, If I`m smooth and calm, they write me off the page.
Such a stereotype — it doesn't need reality, It simply desires echoes from someone's sour youth. It says guys don't cry, and ladies speak too much, That electricity belongs to sure names and such.
It tells me I'm now no longer clever due to the fact I smile too wide, Or that I'm now no longer critical due to how I slide. It tells the arena who I am with out ever asking me, Then receives indignant once I dare to disagree.
It is available in jokes that convey antique pain, In headlines, in whispers, once more and once more. It lives in “human beings such as you usually do this,” And hides at the back of compliments soaked in a hiss.
But I am now no longer your label, your boxed design, I am the storm, the silence, the crooked line. I am now no longer your worry of the exceptional or new, I am made from many things, now no longer simply one view.
You don't get to outline me with tired lies, Or have a take a observe my pores and skin and count on what's inside. I am deeper than your lazy thought, More layered than the combat you by no means fought.
Such a stereotype—how fragile you are, Afraid of a thoughts that wanders too far. Afraid of the woman who builds with out shame, Afraid of the boy who won't play your game.
But I am now no longer right here to play along, I am now no longer right here to show you wrong. I'm simply right here to be, to grow, to live, Not to take what lack of understanding gives.
So preserve your boxes, your worn-out cliché, I'll stroll my reality in my personal way. Because irrespective of the labels that cloud your sight, I am now no longer a stereotype — I am my light.