Archery by Sarina Rabiee (14, California)

I cannot speak them. 
The words come out a whisper, 
dying on my tongue before they have a chance to hit their target.
Am I the arrow? Am I the bow? Or am I the target? 

(that society can’t seem to hit in the center, no matter how much it wishes to). ​

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My words belong on a stage, 
Critical words spoken like free verse and a melody I seem to be creating
I cannot differentiate the poetry from the music, 
But, no matter, society cannot accept an ink stain marring their picture of perfection.

(Being free from all flaws and defects) 

It seems that the flight of an arrow is neverending. 
Until it is able to hit its intended target. 

(The privileged few are granted leniency in intention). 

An arrow that misses the bullseye, but hits the mockingbird 
Is celebrated. 

They get to alter the pages of their story, 
Changing their target from the red and white, to the fluttering blue.
To hit the moving target, is far more celebrated than the still one.
Intention can be forgotten. 

(For those society wishes to rewrite).​