In response.

I was born in January, a Wednesday afternoon,
(flowers had wilted, I was born to bloom)

I was raised through protagonists in literature,
I was raised to want more, a Life to procure.

Compromise came, but never accepted,
I still lived my life, my visions projected:

A shameful need for success and recognition,
(a less acknowledged want for domestic tradition.)

I still lack a concept of the dedication required,
The people, who bled constant, worked and perspired. 

I have a faith that this life was made for me,
Laid out and preserved. A set ecstasy.

I could end up with little and deserve even less,
Live a life that is well and good (through time, though, suppress

The worth of my wants, and learn and evolve)
And find something else. A bliss. I’ll absolve.