Poetry, Prose, & Peonies

Hold me to a higher standard,

A higher standard still,

Place the pedestal high above,

Above a windowsill,

When did you decide my place?

What happened to free will?

You cemented my contract in stone,

But I don’t fit the bill.

The standards set are ones too high,

For even Angels flying by,

Yet a higher standard still.

Every judgement, every word,

Carves deeper against my frill,

I can no longer hide,

I am dead inside,

Above the windowsill.

When I climbed down,

To the ground,

I crashed and broke some bones,

Everyone was occupied by the pedestal,

Empty and shaken.

But I was full and grounded.

You were hardened and vengeful.

Praying to the gods,

“Where did my child go?”

Your child, exalted

My pride, insulted

Yet a higher standard still.

Every achievement,

Leads to bereavement,

Spitting venomous hate,

Hatred you did not create.

Carrying the weight of the world,

Because of your daughter’s words,

Yet a higher standard still.

Disappointment.

Despicable.

Disgusting.

Daughter.

Which of these D’s am I today?

Turn the wheel and find the way.

I glance to my side,

Forgetting my pride,

And I glance inside,

Our empty Pride.

The head is gone,

The arms are dressed,

Make-up dons,

The fair mistress.

But all around me is conceit and lies,

Of people who instilled fear,

But I am the one who died,

While you anger yourself there.

Hold me to a higher standard,

A higher standard still.

Place the pedestal high above,

And watch my eyes go still,

I will never fit the bill.