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                                           For every person there is a place,
                                           A pre arranged, and fitting, settling space—
                                           Every man and woman, who in life will try
                                           Just their own set space in society to occupy;

                                           Every wealthy person, who possesses much,
                                           In his category smiles, being labeled as such;
                                           Every needy person, who can accept where they’ve laid,
                                           Or try to move on to other spots—more still already made;

                                           Every law-abiding citizen, every one of the police,
                                           They have longed to, and will long, be such a fitting piece,
                                           Every worker, and every stuck up bitch,
                                           They all are labeled, unmoving, in their pre-set niche;

                                           Every race, and every nationality, who have griped,
                                           While acting stereotypically, about being stereotyped;
                                           Every non-conformist, who will now conform
                                           To what for a ‘non-conformist’ is the norm;

                                            Every leader, who follows his predecessors’ ‘ism’s,
                                            --Ism-azing—for they all say only trouble’s arisen;
                                            Every leader, who follows, while promising an era that’s new,
                                            But repeating their same error—his goals are just for the few;

                                            Every rabbi, and pastor, and every priest,
                                            Blindly using the same stale molds their ancestors pieced,
                                            Every scientist and doctor—every obedient government drone,
                                            Who try to cure the wrong things, and clone those already a clone;

                                            Every predictable fad-follower, who to pre-conceived notions succumb,
                                            Who, blending (though not indivisible), soon invisible become;
                                            Every single person, told what to like—and who quickly obey,
                                            Tediously wanting to be, and be with, just a walking cliché;

                                            Every brother, and sister; every mom and dad,
                                            Who grasp onto the same values their others had;
                                            Every son and daughter, every tiny pup,
                                            Who are asked; ‘What label do you want when you grow up?’;

                                            And the irony is that if we merely try
                                            To reside in those spaces—labels, of now and times gone by,
                                            All in piece (not in peace), and content just to fit,
                                            Then we cannot ever grow.  No, not one tiny bit;

                                            Me, I do not belong in here,
                                            I don’t have a fit (but I get them) here in this land,
                                            I try to make them see—and logic to understand,
                                            --They, in pieces, cut apart; but they only condemn;

                                            Oddly enough, always saying I'm a puzzle to them.