Even when the ink runs
down the side of my head
and the boy with my ink
in his red palm imprints
"give up" with his fist,
I think of the little prince
and my promise to remind him
that everyone's special.
Even when the bill falls
through the fat gaps between my fingers
and the lady with my number
in her "too broke to date" list drives
a nail into my dreams,
I think of the lovers
and my duty to write them
happily forever after.
Even when the street snores
over the sound of my voice
and the others with my name
in their jabs and jokes write
"won't be remembered" on my tombstone,
I think of the one
and my dream to weave them
into reality.
YOU ARE READING
Waiting for the Rain to Fall
PoetryPoems that twine thread around the broken bits of a soul, that fling umbrella lips into beaming buckets and kind of just make you want to say, "life is beautiful, isn't it?" - a totally unbiased review from me, the author.
