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She doesn't want to let me sing. She doesn't want to let me shout in the voice of another, or an other me. She doesn't want me to dance and to move and to lose what she couldn't, can't stand me to shine, to behave the way that she wouldn't. Doesn't want me to reap and to nurture and sow, can't imagine what I would be if I were to grow. She didn't and doesn't and still she cannot. But it's never too late. I can sing, I can grow. I can grow.