Head over heels, in grass as tall as my eyes.

I step in the world of wrong.

Where the peaches grow too ripe, unpicked on trees.

Where birds can sing out of tune, in a throng.

The grass, a flush green from the summer sun,

Flattens beneath my feet,

Which are pounding out a beat from a drum.

I feel like running barefoot, and sing.

I feel like I can get away from my sin.

Of being free. Of being rumpled, always on the edge of fray.

But then I am on the edge.

Facing the opposite of me is proper.

The word reminds me of noses stuck in the air.

Prime cut meat stuck into ironed straight clothes.

No sign of a flair.

No sign of that fire that burns and rampages inside me.

To be free.

The side of wrong is not my birth right.

I step on the well manicured grass.

The fakeness of it crunches,

the artificial green hurts my sight.

This is sweet home, my safe haven?

I think not. I turn to my other world.

And take a step back.

To being free again.