Sonnet XCIII

Don’t put me near a baby learning shapes,
for I won’t fit in any of the holes.
I’m not the perfect size or height or shape.
Frustration soon would take its nasty toll.

I’d make a horrible and disliked shoe:
the boxes wouldn’t hold my length or width,
my oddness would create unrest anew,
for shoes don’t always fit (that’s just a myth).

So I should be content to be myself,
but humans have their own confines and moulds.
Each day we face the traps that gladly quell
our vast diversity with norms we’re told.

If nature made us each uniquely rare,
why should we use like standards to compare?