Ink wraps its arms around an idea,
Tracing letters that act as messengers
Of hope sent from some remote area,
With defiance towards its challengers.

The ink once it’s written speaks its own voice,
Like a child set free from its parent’s pen.
The pen having etched its lines made its choice
To have its intent not matter again.

Caring for all these children in my head,
They mature the moment that they are penned.
As confidently as they each have fled,
They don’t reflect on me as I intend.

Each word is a child that I have let go,
The ink no more under the pen’s control,
Out in the world seeing what I don’t know,
But into these children I wrote my soul.

It’s a life of fear living inside the life of my own
I threw everything away except some common decency
I want to do what’s right by my children but it’s so hard
I had to find myself in order to get on the right frequency
My folks always felt the same way
But it was me who didn’t want to care

I decided to open every box I’d packed away
All were labeled wrong except for one labeled right
Since I was the one who decided these things
I needed one to be lit only by the natural light
My folks knew this would happen
But it was me who waited too long

I try to explain the ways of the world but who can say
We decided the best road was to manage our own
I opened their eyes just by asking if everyone is the same
I hoped their hearts were made of blood and not of bone
My folks never tried to burden me
But it was me who ignored what they know

I have to let go of the things that once scared my folks
There’s no chance what they want is for my peace of mind
It’s a feeling I get when I’m alone thinking if I can take it
I shouldn’t care but then it would be my heart I couldn’t find
My folks decided to let me grow up
But it was me who didn’t know how