Limitations in creation.

How we measure ourselves, the ruler, inch by inch we are notched up, another success, another failure, another means we profess. Are we really what the system tells us we should be, comparative by qualification, career or material possession as if a system is an external force we make our own obsession? Or are we the creator, believing because we give power to such superficial means to judge? What is our worth, our value based if not what we ourselves measure up against?

Told we can when we know we can not when all is stacked in another's favour, but still we break our backs in pursuit, that fruitless endeavour not meant for us but that other. We change the rules or we obey, either way, we lose. The former we are lost of value, the latter in stature. We think positive as much as we can endure to hear the mere creak of a door, never opened but firmly secured. Deemed negative the reality when exposed, a thing to dismiss in awareness transposed onto rosen tints, successfully we ignore the signs too painful to behold. But, if I should be so bold, what if we instead, the I we know is esteemed no matter what by this society we are told? What if with no stick to beat, removed of its power we nonetheless are valued by our own internal teller? Now there's a thought as in distraught this poem is laid to bare its inaccuracy in rhyming rules, haha says she, as if only I had a care.