I drive my mind until
I can't recognize the shadows
falling on the window pane.
The familiar words far beside
as I sit in a room in my house
that isn't a room in my house anymore.
I watch for rainbows
and magic. For eyes that see
Worlds don't work like my mind
because there are too many
other minds. Block the magic.
Keep the shadows familiar.
It's safe to be in a house
that we see
as a house and not as freedom.
I drive my feet that stand
as still as the wind brushing trees
like mothers brush children's hair.
Swiftly but softly so that it doesn't hurt.
Children are like trees.
They are rooted in their homes
but they move. Always growing up.
Towards the sky because they have
no limits.
Adults are like sheers.
They chop away
at the branches of personality
mistaking growth for weight gained.
They think our limits are what is always safe.
Like if a branch happens to be
slightly cracked at the trunk
it needs to be fixed
or removed.
So how thankful I am to be
neither.
I am the rain. I nourish
roots and sustain free thinking.
I don't want to condition minds
making them memorize the way
the pain seeps into their sap
when adults cut them.
I make them remember
they created the shadows
we memorize to begin with.
When a house is no longer a home
and simply a room with a window.
