daisy
Dear Mr. Bumblebee,
When I was a child, you were my friend.
A fat little oval drawn floating past in my puffy-clouded, sun-in-the-corner-of-the-page blue sky, drawing you was a pleasure, with your dotted-line curving trail following lazily behind you.
Commitment is not a good intention. It is a job, a duty. And it is just that, a duty of mine, to take care of this matter.
Children carve their sculptures in powdery brown dirt, pails of water supplementing dirty hands and stained white dresses. When playtime is over all that is left is a clump of mud and dirty clothes.
No matter how many difficulties we face, there will always be a thin glow in the distance, a tiny lantern flashing morse code that drives us forward.
Destiny's call is neither faint nor ear-splitting.
Its song is sung in its lovely soprano
drawing you in just as a siren call
but danger is not so eminent.
The room was lacking so many essential items, all things stripped from it until white, clean, even bone marrow was left. No bed, no carpet, no paint, no fixtures. Nothing.
I have a wealth
of things and people
that I do not know,
but our hearts still beat in time
and we still kneel down
with thoughts of each other bubbling
in our brains
and we still sing meaningless jumbles
that we call songs
to each other.
Taking a stand isn't nearly as easy as it sounds. Facing your peers is the single most frightening experience I could ever go through, and it isn't as rewarding as they say in the movies.
A million butterflies
are withheld
in my chest,
begging to be let free
the cage opening
as
poems,
songs,
paintings,
art
float into the endless blue sky.
I always like to put a little bit of bounce into my stride, even if I feel like flopping onto the couch with a half-empty bag of potato chips with Full House playing in the background.
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