Moon at Half Past Noon

Schoolyards knot me in society’s threads,
Tradition’s weight bends my young spine to dust.
Teachers carve their rules into my palms,
Each letter a scar I’ll carry to my grave.

Peers braid my thoughts with their cruel games,
Their laughter a whip that flays my skin.
I’m dressed in hand-me-down beliefs,
Each custom a stitch in my heart’s tight seam.
Once, I dared to ask why the moon’s a mask,
But the crowd’s hum drowned my fledgling voice.

Choice is a ghost I chase through chalk-dust air,
Slipping from my grasp like a broken kite.
The elders’ tales, spun from ancient looms,
Bind my wrists with their musty threads.

I’m a puppet in their festival of rites,
My steps choreographed by their old songs.
The playground’s a mirror, warped and cold,
Reflecting faces I’m taught to wear.

No choice lives in this hive of norms—
My tongue’s a prisoner, my will a shade.
The bees of custom buzz in my skull,
Stinging my dreams to fit their hive.