Everyone has been taught tricks,
To determine if they’re enough,
As our skill sets conclude our cliques.
We’re a series of boxes,
Waiting to be marked with ticks,
Adjectives twist into labels,
We sculpt ‘good enough’,
But within the glass and clay lies another fable,
As long as we pass our sculptures won’t break.
If we quit the sculpture will become cracked,
Jagged lines spreading across until it’s like a smashed mirror,
All because a person couldn’t amount to what they lacked,
So we’ve become stuck participating for the participation award.
All chances lie within how we act,
How well we moulded our sculptures.
After-all each crack reveals another statistic.
11 in 100 Australians are queer,
A ‘sinful’ characteristic,
1 in 3 Australians take a stand when they see racism,
But no one wants to seem antagonistic.
3 million Australians are living with depression,
But that’s not our fault, they’re just nihilistic,
We’ll always be too much or much less,
Yet we except being good enough is realistic.
Is like endless laughter from a joke that wasn’t that funny,
Or blaring playlists out loud while driving and it’s sunny,
And that last rhyme was a bit too much,
Not good enough.
I’m okay with letting the sculpture fall apart,
After restrictions and contradictions,
Besides enough is like a bluff,
Waiting to be graded,
A tool to keep us as boxes,
Cliques formed from being persuaded,
Good enough is made from rose stained glass,
I’d rather be much than fragile.