Some are born with the rhythm,
Some have rhyme but lack imagination,
Some have all the passion,
And lack subject.
Some are endowed with poetry,
Some hunt it,
Others steal it from their peers.
I have to trap it,
And twist it to my liking.
I have to use it,
Like an addict I will do anything.
The rhythm sates me,
The rhyme feeds my fire,
The passion gives me drection,
And the form keeps me sane.
So I go from pen to pen,
Looking for the next rendition.

when i was a little girl
i sat at my window every night
and dreamed about flying away
then i would tuck myself into bed
and dream until the next day

then one night as i sat on the sill,
the moon and stars were shining so bright
i flung that window open,
grabbed a bouquet of balloons,
and set off on my flight.

the wind carried me, in my nightdress
up, up, up
to the stars and the moon
with my little toes dangling below me,
away i went with my birthday balloons.

i flew over my neighbor's house,
then over the twinkling lights of the city.
i flew over rivers, lakes and trees.
from up there, everything looked so pretty.

i flew over farmlands with cows and chickens
then over parks with beautiful fountains,
then i crossed over great, wide oceans
and floated over snow-capped mountains.

i never wanted to touch the ground
so i continued on my way.
if you look up in the sky you just might see me
flying with my balloon bouquet.