I laugh...

I cry...

I yell...

I love...

 

 

Does this make me perfect?

Or imperfect?

 

 

Is it my hair?

The clothes I wear?

The music I listen to?

That I rather play then be stuck in a room?

 

 

I don't want to be like the adults I see walking outside,

In their grey suits, 

Stoic faces, never smiling...

 

 

I know you want me to grow mama,

But how can I if you want me to be like everyone else?

I try to grow out my wings,and I did!

But the moment I took flight, 

An anchor pulled me back down...

Mama, can you just let me fly?

 

 

Can I be just myself... 

and no one else?