We wish for freedom from the tethers of tedium
and then wait upon that cliff, clinging,
until it crumbles, unravels,
beneath our feet.
While hiding behind process, weighing options, measuring convention,
we know we haven’t truly planned to leap at all-
our own volition: weak.
Instead we wait for the falling,
after the forced push from behind,
and then have the balls to look over our shoulder and blame
Don’t give me an out, just tell me it is done; And let me make my own foolishness.