Freedom

Life seems bound
by regulations, judgements and expectations,
shackled by interpretations
so that when dusk falls like a rock
it shatters each day into a million fragmentations.
The only color an artist would use when painting
a still life of my present
is gray.
But I please and I curse,
I beg and I bleed;
I try to argue
time is more interesting spent living at the fray.
Need to add a palate of color to my day:
a splash of orange,
a touch of a brighter shade.
Beautifully misplaced
are the weeds,
serving no purpose, filling no needs.
Dandelions
a yellow spot lost in a green sea
have no hesitations,
they just grow free.
My life seems bound,
by the clouds,
by the bricks,
by your stones and your sticks.
Beautifully misplaced,
like a cold glass of sweet tea
in the middle of December,
like dreams shot by a rocket away into space,
searching for understanding,
in need of heavenly grace.