Letter to my elders

My dreams are not a 
bull’s eye for your insults. 
Nor are they a deep regret 
for you to bury me in. 
I know life has made 
a leash out of you, 
but I am a poem with 
enough lines inside of me 
to lasso a star and rope swing 
on top of the moon. 
Then marvel at the footsteps that 
proved impossible walked amongst us. 
You act as if being crazy nowadays 
isn’t actually a good thing. 
I’m learning that if someone 
doesn’t call me crazy I must be 
doing something wrong. 
Or maybe I’m doing the things 
you never had enough courage to do. 
I’m sure that counts for something right?