The strokes of the brush
Lines drawn
Little imperfections of beauty
It’s all she knows

So she illustrates the sorrows of the world
Paints the constraints of her life
Like shackles bolted to the ground
She sketches her freedom
Doves fluttering their wings
A mockery of their sovereignty
Using charcoal, black
As the bags under her eyes

Maybe someday
The heavy elements that inhibit her liberty
Constant criticism
Dictations and limitations set for her

But now she must deal
Accept the path that’s not meant for her
Work for what she doesn’t love
To fulfill dreams not achieved