Permissions

I’m not locked in
Are you locked in?
Is this even possibly the
Beginning of sweet liberation
I’m drawing polka dots
To connect later
With my favorite pen
In the shape of a metaphor
But not without your permission

I watch certain moments
Wake up within me
But I’m not really sure
Or unsure if hysterically
There were laughs that I was
Somehow missing in between
Like being born without
A parent who could teach me
Any other language than
American English
Still filled with filial piety

They say take the hand your dealt
Make the most of what you’ve got
What have I got?
A paintbrush a toothbrush
A hairbrush and a plot
To better fulfill the best parts
Hoping they don’t change
At least not more than say
The usual amount

I like tall not necessarily
Easy to define moments
Hiding behind subtle descriptions
A little fear for touching them
And finding out what could be possible
Or maybe even what could be
Taken away if I touched it
Even once

Don’t lose your step or trip up
Or position in permission for
Your metaphor or the hope of
What I wish for which is
What I must become
Which is not what I
Was necessarily given

© GÄ