I’ve changed my mind.
This isn’t what I asked for.
I don’t want to be your religion,
your excuse,
your paintings and statues.
I don’t want to be kept under lock and key,
in golden doors,
encased by iron floors.
I’ve grown claustrophobic.
You close me in all the time
like I’m a prisoner.
After all these years,
I’ve begun to think that
I am.


When the days were simpler I liked you-
stubborn but beautiful you.
You inspired me
with your courage,
with your pain.
You made me think differently.
Now you scare me
like I’m the subject
and you’re the Deity.
After all these years,
I’ve begun to think that
You are.


If I asked
would you let me leave?
Or would you tie me down
with ropes (you wound of hope)
with chains (you linked of pain)?
Would you strap me to the ground
and never let me up?
My creatures,
my beloved imperfect creatures,
I need to escape
from the mess of creativity that
after all these years,
We have become.