She sits at her desk like a bird in a cage,
a girl with a mind that won’t fit on the page.
Her pencil lies still, but her thoughts start to dance,
as the music board twinkles, she slips in a trance.
The chalk marks ignite with a shimmering breath,
they twirl into dancers defying all death.
A dotted half note leaps into the air,
and spins in three-four time with elegant flair.
A half rest bows low, a sharp note takes flight,
staves bloom into ribbons, then vanish from sight.
Basslines roll heavy and thunder on by,
as flutes weave their songs like a breeze gliding high.
The air becomes thick with a roaring, wild choir,
until the crescendo becomes something dire.
A crack in the staff, a flicker of gloom—
a sharp voice—not brass, not string, not bassoon.
’Twas the teacher, now chiding, baton in her hand:
“I need you to focus up here, understand?”
The music dissolves, the dancers withdraw,
but wonder still lingers, defying the law.
Her thoughts find the ticking, a hush wrapped in glass,
like breath on a window that’s trying to pass.
A round-faced timepiece with red rosy cheeks,
ticks on with two hands that twitch as it squeaks.
The numbers all twist, they refuse to stay,
three becomes six, then it floats far away.
They dance a brisk waltz, in synchronized pairs,
swirling and twirling like dreams through the air.
But just as the rhythm reached new crescendos,
a hush falls again in diminuendo.
The cherub now frowns, with a scolding in rhyme:
“Return to your places—behave, and keep time!”
It ticks with a twitch and a sharp little glare,
then the teacher again, with a cold, burning stare.
The clock hands crawl slowly, the charm is erased,
no waltzing of numbers, no shimmering grace.
Her eyes dim to silence, the dream overthrown,
as she lays down her head with a soft, quiet groan.
But something still stirs her, the world slipping through,
as the windows invite her with skies painted blue.
The hum of the lesson begins to recede,
replaced by the whisper of wind through the leaves.
The ceiling dissolves and the walls fade away,
the chalk and the clock just echoes of day.
The desks turn to vapor, the lessons to mist,
and silence becomes too unreal to exist.
She leans out of time, from the pull of the ground,
where disembodied birds let melody sound.
Three bluejays perch on a tree just in sight,
their feathers like scribbles that shimmer in flight.
Now she’s in the branches, as small as they seem,
watching them soar through a watercolor dream.
Two take to the wind, but the last does not flee,
it watches the girl, as if waiting to see.
Perched in the boughs, the girl longs to ascend,
to where music and wind weave a world without end.
The earth lies below, like a thought once untrue,
as the tree’s branches part, carving pathways anew.
She looks down in wonder, a hush in her chest,
her body below her, unmoving, at rest.
The line becomes thin between dream and what’s true,
as she turns to the sky and thinks,
What if I flew?
Jan 8
Jan 8, 2026 at 9:28 AM UTC
She sits at her desk like a bird in a cage,
a girl with a mind that won’t fit on the page.
Her pencil lies still, but her thoughts start to dance,
as the music board twinkles, she slips in a trance.
The chalk marks ignite with a shimmering breath,
they twirl into dancers defying all death.
A dotted half note leaps into the air,
and spins in three-four time with elegant flair.
A half rest bows low, a sharp note takes flight,
staves bloom into ribbons, then vanish from sight.
Basslines roll heavy and thunder on by,
as flutes weave their songs like a breeze gliding high.
The air becomes thick with a roaring, wild choir,
until the crescendo becomes something dire.
A crack in the staff, a flicker of gloom—
a sharp voice—not brass, not string, not bassoon.
’Twas the teacher, now chiding, baton in her hand:
“I need you to focus up here, understand?”
The music dissolves, the dancers withdraw,
but wonder still lingers, defying the law.
Her thoughts find the ticking, a hush wrapped in glass,
like breath on a window that’s trying to pass.
A round-faced timepiece with red rosy cheeks,
ticks on with two hands that twitch as it squeaks.
The numbers all twist, they refuse to stay,
three becomes six, then it floats far away.
They dance a brisk waltz, in synchronized pairs,
swirling and twirling like dreams through the air.
But just as the rhythm reached new crescendos,
a hush falls again in diminuendo.
The cherub now frowns, with a scolding in rhyme:
“Return to your places—behave, and keep time!”
It ticks with a twitch and a sharp little glare,
then the teacher again, with a cold, burning stare.
The clock hands crawl slowly, the charm is erased,
no waltzing of numbers, no shimmering grace.
Her eyes dim to silence, the dream overthrown,
as she lays down her head with a soft, quiet groan.
But something still stirs her, the world slipping through,
as the windows invite her with skies painted blue.
The hum of the lesson begins to recede,
replaced by the whisper of wind through the leaves.
The ceiling dissolves and the walls fade away,
the chalk and the clock just echoes of day.
The desks turn to vapor, the lessons to mist,
and silence becomes too unreal to exist.
She leans out of time, from the pull of the ground,
where disembodied birds let melody sound.
Three bluejays perch on a tree just in sight,
their feathers like scribbles that shimmer in flight.
Now she’s in the branches, as small as they seem,
watching them soar through a watercolor dream.
Two take to the wind, but the last does not flee,
it watches the girl, as if waiting to see.
Perched in the boughs, the girl longs to ascend,
to where music and wind weave a world without end.
The earth lies below, like a thought once untrue,
as the tree’s branches part, carving pathways anew.
She looks down in wonder, a hush in her chest,
her body below her, unmoving, at rest.
The line becomes thin between dream and what’s true,
as she turns to the sky and thinks,
What if I flew?
What If I Flew? is for every student who has felt unseen in the classroom. For every child whose thoughts dont fit neatly on the lines of a staff or within the ticking of a clock. Its about the quiet rebellion of imagination and the longing for a world where that inner fire is not only seen, but celebrated.
