I am not the voice of my generation.
I stand alone.
I do not represent my religion,
There is no abode I call home.
I often walk unsteady,
even when I’m standing on my own two feet.
And it will be miles yet,
before I admit defeat.
I do not fit within expectations,
although I’m often forced within limits.
Generations before me have climbed summits,
that I take as a given,
and personal granted rights.
I’m not sure how others view me,
as I precariously walk by.
But it is their wonder,
that often drives me high,
in the pursuit of knowledge
I don’t abide by the rules,
or any government’s laws.
I don’t fit neatly into stereotypes,
for I am far too flawed.
I seek comfort,
in my own skin.
But I am uncertain of my roots,
and so my own personal battle begins.
No I’m not a poster girl,
for any culture, colour or creed.
I’m not a symbol,
or a sign of the white man’s greed.
Or the black man’s sorrow.
Or the woman’s tomorrow.
Or even my own borrowed,
language and looks and lifestyle.
In fact I stand for them all,
and therefore I stand for nothing.
I’m open to interpretation.
As just one voice,
out of the many;
of this generation.