She wakes sweating visions of colors that don’t yet exist
Factory crayons do not imagine such beautiful blaspheme,
But the teachers shriek and in hushed tones dismiss
When she bleeds her finger to access the red from her dream.
She needs a ladder, tools and smock not this dress,
A corset made for dames whose lips never bit freedom.
Neck stretched for respect but only receiving caress,
Hollow smiles, some prefer her meat to her wisdom.
She fumbles her fingers – mama said pointing is rude,
How does one learn to lead without mandate of direction?
The stage opened to her would leave the audience glued
Two swings of her fist to shatter characterization.
Onwards crimson would seep through the system’s fiber,
Each little girl unleashing her own beautiful tiger.