I can't even recognize what comes out of my fingertips
When you grab the pencil and make me follow. Babbling nonsense
about conceptual thought. My thoughts are thoughts just the same as yours.
How can I show you my own interpretations when you just impose on me
the thoughts that burrow in a mind not mine.
I am made of the same potential, the same matter.
But, the garden doesn't grow if you never start.
You don't know the possibilities of my mind, my hands, my lines.
Excuse me, dictator. I need a little space, a little space for my thoughts.
A free blank piece of paper that has nothing but my own.