Rap – Normal Life (Part 4/5 of Juxtaposition)

Note: this is part four of a series of raps (called 'Juxtaposition') that, read together, tell an overarching story. 'Juxtaposition' is a sequel to another series of raps called 'The Lost Star'. Despite this, it's also readable as a standalone piece.

She awakes sad she woke up, instead of dying in her sleep,
Society’s failed her, the end the sole remedy,
Fighting through the week, weak, mind a mess,
Just trying to kill time between now and her death,
Turning curses to verbs in verses, cursing in cursive,
See learning kids nearby, while she writes, dispersing, 
One trying to fit mismatched puzzle pieces but it won't work,
That's God placing her onto this Earth,
In hallways pedestrians always questioning her happiness,
Pretending they ain't sensing that her mind's a damaged muck,
Latched to what’s snapped her lust, reckless abandonment,
Letting someone down is always what's up,
In her fantasy she's bound for glory,
In reality she's bound to misery,
Bound between aspiration and expectations,
Bound to the designation of the designed nation,
Bound to this tightrope, happiness at the end,
Except the rope’s a spiral, demons waiting at the final bend,
Going back to the start she'd sit comfortable
But eventually the safety becomes insufferable,
She sympathises with the demons, she sees right through them
Because she's also only half a human,
Shunned from love, fuelled by hate,
Trialled by fire, doomed by fate,
Wearing deodorant stains from attempts to erase
The scent of sweat and self disdain,
Trying to achieve the facade they want her to be,
An apology for not following the illusion of peace,
If you don't conform you're not gawked at normally,
Not another key on the chain? Saw not as another tree in the forestry?
You get no buzz, shunned forcefully to leave,
“Don't give a fuck about your lumber, Jack, morph to what we seek,"
Always progressing, just in the wrong direction, in reverse,
Confession; she's uncomfortable in her comfort zone, it hurts,
She softens that through humour, but excels making smalltalk not work,
She's a comic sans the micro soft words,
She spent her whole time in a mournful strife, dying for a normal life,
Now she's petrified of dying a normal life,
She forever strived to be aligned with the formal line,
Now she dies inside abiding to the line “form a line,"
Society's cyanide, “have a nice life… as long as you're dwarfed by time,"
Prioritise becoming proprietary, the proposition - conform or writhe,
She despises how being normal is what's normalised,
How dreaming is just a saying, and doing is psychopathic, borderline,
Yet, the biggest resistance against her visions is her pride
‘Cause every time it is this which chooses to consider they're right,
This shit’s why she writes, and also why she doesn't write,
It's dictating her life, "I'm taking it back, it's mine!"
She knows her destination and its path, so she will not be waiting,
She's realised this IS the fire she in the past contemplated,
She will everlast, never cast a bomb who faded,
She ain't stopping till in a grave, it engraved saying “she made it”

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