Dreams wrap themselves around me, moist and warm.
I came inside to shelter from the storm.
They won't give me a straight response until
they have processed my application form.
When life gets weird, so does my poetry.
I don't get paid for this. My words are free.
I speak my mind and, hey - you know, guess what?
I don't care if you disapprove of me -
or so I tell myself, but is it true?
I'll sometimes water down a point of view
these days, in case it gets misunderstood -
tone down my language, if they ask me to.
What happened to the spirit of my youth?
I remember when the sky was my roof.
When did I start to feel too insecure
to speak my mind, and hit them with the truth?