Wednesday, October 12, 2011


When my hands were tiny
And my eyes only saw innocent things
I would


The world was my storybook
and I, it's writer
I was the author of my own destiny

Everyday after school
I would shed my back pack and shoes
on the floor by the door

Barefoot and
I would run into the backyard
where I could choose to be
whatever I wanted

A mountain climber
a wild bear
the President

In my mind, if I could dream it
it would take form
from the mist
and be.
Whatever I wanted it to be


Now when I drive home
my sleeping son in the back seat
a ring finger missing a ring.
That I come home and someone is there
to kiss my cheek and run their fingers through my hair

He wouldn't care if I wasn't wearing makeup
He wouldn't care if my hair was short or long or anything
He would only inhale my skin
and admire me for what I am.
But when I walk through the door
baby in one arm, diaper bag over my shoulder
place the keys on the counter

The house is dark.
I switch the lights on.
I could only hope...




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