Bricks of the past, falling down, pressing,
keeping me inside where I don't want to be.
Not wanting to be closed in or corralled,
but not knowing how to break out.
There has to be a way, but it probably won't
be easy - nothing ever is.
Knowing that I can be florescent, but continue
to be a pastel, depresses me.
If there is a way I will find it and begin the
journey to my rightful freedom.
(6: 50 p.m. - 3/12/89)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem