Quote: Don't Let The Child Within You Die.

What is fantasy?
What I dream?
My imagination
Soaring on butterfly wings
Making believe,
I’m small as an ant
or as tall as a tree
A tiger with sharp teeth
Growling at
whoever I meet

A beautiful fairy
With magic dust
A gnome with feet all hairy
A song bird
Who sings only for me
A rabbit who smokes a pipe
An owl who gives advice
A handsome prince
In love with me
Sugar n spice

What is fantasy?
A rainbow with gold
Riding on fluffy clouds
Never growing old
Raindrops of sweet tea
Landing on
outstretched tongue
a yellow brick road
as far as the eye can see

my inner child,
a song needed sung

You and I canoe down neon waterfalls,
Smelling cinnamon and sinsemilla,
Through sockets cascading melted eyeballs,
Intermixed with honey and vanilla,
We push paddle towards combusting shores,
Cloaked in pellucid smoke and glimmer mist,
Black sky alive with buzzing glowbug spores,
We must inhale to know that we exist,
But what if the hazy vapor-stew's too thick,
Paddles stick: viscosity of time,
When the sporal secretions make us sick,
What will become of the horizon line,
Will it burn to charcoal reality
Or conjure us sublime finality?

Atop the tower
     Stands
          A mage
     With storm in hand

And inside their mind
     Hell
          Glass, sand
     An empty sky

A clap of thunder
     Blinding
          Hot light
     With no remorse

On nothing day
I talk to myself
And know myself
Better than I will tomorrow
Better tonight
Amongst a lifetime of clutter
Between childhood diaries
And what could be a clover field, in a dream,
where everything was the same but better
Like it is when I write it down
On soft paper, cream with a pressed flower
Folded in the seam.
Of course, I have never written on this soft paper,
And tonight, on nothing day,
I type with tired, uneasy fingers
On a screen too bright for midnight eyes.
And yet in all the nastiness and stickiness
The imperfections, oddities
The house spider webs,
Crooked paintings,
******* ants, crawling up my legs
Here, in nothing day,
I somehow know myself better
Than I will tomorrow.

By a clear mountain stream an enchantress sat skywriting.
Her bracelets seemed to jangle a melody as her arms moved.
The wind stopped blowing lest the clouds corrupt her work.

The knight, dressed in black, wore a mask and intended damage.
His knife was clenched between his teeth, as he moved noiselessly closer - breathing shallowly for stealth.

The birds suddenly stopped chirping. “Go home boy,” the enchantress whispered.
The knight blinked and froze but the enchantress did not look around.
She pulled a half-penny from a pouch, kissed it, and lobbed it into the stream.

The knight went from certain to vague - he sheathed his knife and wiped his lips.
“Come, drink.” the minx motioned to the stream.
As he sipped water from his cupped hands the beautiful woman
said, “Your love will bear you two strong sons if you’re home before dark.”
The knight wiped his hands on his trousers - nodded - and ran for his horse.
The enchantress smiled to herself as she finished her unearthly poem.

He saw in me what he once held behind his own eyes.
A vision of splendour to thy beholder,
a prodigy of sorts to be moulded and shaped.
I was a blank canvas and he the creator.

Don’t you see?
This thing you call life,
the gift most are granted at birth,
was never mine to own.

Cursed to never know what it is like to hold power over your own destiny. To be granted the privilege of choice.

Instead I am forever bound to a man who declares himself a god.
A possession
until the day I perish,
that is the price I paid.