when I say
“stopthis, trythat”
I speak not from the rooftops
or the pulpit.

(I feel like a small
termite
that has gnawed through your
wooden visage and delved into
certified you-
I speak
from
the
inside
red layer of your giant
possibility)

The Master of your creation gave me
colored glasses
and through them I can see
[   you   ]
as you could become.
Potential.
(as You are truly)

I wish
I could tear your very trained
highly efficient
scowl
off your luminescent tie dye soul

and strike you thunderously
with coursing hope
that transcribes my spirit
onto the finest parchment paper
of time
and original Home

then instill the clearest oxygen
for your gasping
eyes

gift you with the smallest tokens
of supreme still

I am the dog scratching at the door.
it’s raining and I hate the cold
so as I whine and shuffle my feet
do me a favor:
Don’t shut me out.