the funny thing I realized at age fifteen,
having been abandoned by childhood dreams,
and mourning a family held together by its seams,
was that no matter how I spoke,
I'd be told to grow up or stay my words,
they were fleeting thoughts to those I'd tell,
much like the birds,
when my words become more radical,
and pushed against norms,
they suddenly held the power of a thousand storms,
they acknowledged the ugly truth that we lived in,
the veil of innocence slowly becoming thin,
suddenly they found it necessary to scrap them in a bin,
I was paid no attention then told to hush,
told that if I expressed my opinions I would be crushed,
"By whom?" I asked once, told I was naive in my bliss,
"By power," would be their reply, for they were quick to dismiss,
that our words too have power to demand change,
that systems must bow down to those that hold their chains,
it would take a while for optimism to burn,
for fate to redirect my thoughts, for them to adjourn,
to come and say perhaps they had changed,
came together and finally arranged,
but here we are now and I still do not know,
whether these thoughts were right for me to forgo.
