I find myself wishing for the sweet audacity
to continuously say what I feel, when I feel it,
be it the wrong/right exactitude.
I find myself wishing I could shrug,
accept the consequences of my beloved
dare-devilishness puncturing my mundane breathings.
I find myself wishing I could pitch
my sardonic fork freely into life's lungs,
ripping them open
Like the sharp toothed dingo gnawing on wooly sheep.
Shredding the worsted cloak
that so often enshrouds my individuality.
I find myself wishing I could soar
like my dream characters,
above the perils of discerning dissimilarity,
unfurling my wings
against the winding incline of conformity.
I find myself wishing for a lull-a-bye,
a melodic state of placidity
that allows time for humming a ditty
of unpretentious silliness.
I find myself wishing to recapture the unaffected song,
muffled at the threshold of my womanhood.
A need to find the harmony of cotton-candy-fluff simplicity,
which melted with my naivete'.
I find myself wishing,
despite my acquired swagger.
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