Tied by ten thousand strings,
Of seeking,
Binding me to every person,
Every body,
Every thing,
With eyes damaged, blinded,
Always looking,
Outward, outward.
Is it OK?
Did I get it right?
Should I do this?
Is that OK with you?
Can I have your permission?
Always seeking to be perfect,
Best not fuckin fuck up,
Always seeking something other,
Than myself.
And so it is,
With raven woman,
– Odd, to get help,
Not to get help -,
That I stumble,
Pick up,
And move on,
To find my way.
To new awareness,
That permission sought,
Outside myself,
Is a life-learnt trick,
A contract made in the cradle,
Written by a woman who could not see me,
And a child,
– Candy from a baby – ,
That now realised,
Can be broken,
And remade on my own terms,
By myself,
With myself.
Do I have my permission?
Why, Yes, I do.

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