we agree that it's the weather,
the never ending grey,
the sludge trudging

I wear blinders,
even in my sleep

days go by and heads hang low,
low, lower, and homemade
salsa doesn't bring smiles

I look for hands to hold,
but I make myself alone

time is nothing, and everything,
but somehow it's lost faster
than dollar bills

I want freedom without handcuffs,
without retribution for flying

lists, plans, goals,
they pour out onto paper, yet,
somehow dreams are stifled

I wish for upheaval of self,
a genuine understanding