You Have My Permission

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You have my permission
to draw pictures.
You have my permission
to hang them on the wall.
You have my permission
to look stupid,
feel foolish,
and allow yourself to wobble
like a child learning to walk.
You have my permission
to tell the truth on a sheet of white paper.
You have my permission
to burn it when you’re done.
You have my permission
to start something, forget about it,
and remember it again when
you’re half way through a novel
you’ve been meaning to read for years.
You have my permission
to offer things for sale,
even if no one buys them
and the critics form a mob
and gather on your lawn
with torches and bullhorns
and scathing reviews
that your mother will clip out
and send to you
along with a recipe
for chicken tetrazzini.
You have my permission to offer those things even if you can’t meet the demand.
You have my permission
to curse the gods,
or thank them,
or ignore them,
even the ones you don’t believe in.
You have my permission
to write a rambling poem,
much like this one,
and turn the thing in, unedited,
as part of a homework assignment
for which the teacher will give you a failing grade.
You have my permission
to give that teacher the finger.
You have my permission
to ask me
who the hell I think I am
and why on earth
you would ever need my permission
for anything you wish to do.

One thought on “You Have My Permission

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