My Own Gloves. Poem by Derrick Andrews

I wish that I knew how to feel.
Life's becoming more 'real'.
But I can't seem to find,
A foothold of some kind,
Or even a saving appeal.

It's as if I have lost all my ground.
An enigma that's oddly profound.
I just want to fly free,
With no strings holding me,
'Til I've measured my glee, pound for pound.

I just want to pursue what I love.
Until I am resting above,
All the trees and the skies,
All the shame and the lies,
In other words, let me wear my own gloves.

Let me craft the design of my life.
Don't fill it with anguish and strife.
I am fully aware,
That my faith tends to tear,
As life keeps on nearing the scythe.

So don't taunt me and blame me,
Make efforts to tame me,
Or say what I'm doing is wrong.

My passion is flaming,
And there just is no naming,
What I've sought in life all along.

So I'll walk down my path all alone.
I'm proud of the way that I've grown.
Let my hands be my guide,
To the patterns inside,
Of my glove, which I've made my own.