I used to pray

When I was a little girl,

I would pray.

With my eyes wide open and my head tilted back in wonder,

Struggling to soak up every ounce of happiness and sunshine I could

Before the world inevitably,

Went dark.


In the park, on the clouds,

Taking refuge in my mother’s lap,

On my bed as I wished for the dreams,

I would pray to anyone I thought

Would listen,

To a god I then believed had to be out there,



To the carefully placed

Paper-and-plastic stars

Plucked out of the heavens

And glued to the ceilings of my imagination.


Imagination: (noun) a place that doesn’t exist where everything has the capacity to be “As You Wish”

Imagination: (verb) the act of creating such a place for yourself.





What it would take,

As I grew older and it grew harder to wish myself away,

What it would take,

To have such a place

A safe

House that doesn’t exist


Not where everything is how I want it to be, because that would be irrisistably


But where everything is quiet.


My prayers evolved,

Changing to fit my surroundings,

And my view on the world.

At its becoming as a bitter cry,

My voice wound its way through the violet mountains,

Lonely chords hit and missed

As the low, sweet melodies found their way

Into the valleys of my heart.

“Prepare me, to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true,”


Sanctuary: (noun) The cupboard under the stairs, where noise could not penetrate, a place where everything was built on the grounds of my










Myself in words

I built a home

A sanctuary for myself

Among the phrases of others

And eventually, among the tales I spun

Building for myself a world






Magic. Magic. Magic. Magic.  


There were days when I sought refuge

From hailstorms of tantrums, screaming, and s...wordplay

Inside worlds of magic


Magic and promises of love


Good never succumbing to evil.

When Dumbledore said

“Help will always be given at hogwarts to those who ask for it,”

Well, Professor, I’m asking, so please


Rescue me

Show up on my doorstep

With your long purple robe and your

High heeled

Silver buckled boots

And when J.K. Rowling promised me,

“Whether you come back by page or by the big screen,

Hogwarts will always be here to welcome you home.”

Huddled under my bed listening to the

Cacophony of misunderstood sounds leaking through the crack under my door

I dreaded the moment when I would have to return to the



But you and I , who are they to tell us what is


Delusions of Grandeur

Dance through our realities

But at least

You and me

We turn to books

Not drugs

And pugs

Not mugs of self consciousness

And amber ale

Drowning our sorrows

In the words of our followers.


I used to pray to Hermione Granger,

And to Emma Watson

Because to me she embodied

The very being of the magical existence

I so badly

Wanted to be a part of.

Magic. Magic.



And theatre

And I prayed to Emma Granger, later,

When in my heart,

The magic she represented which I thrived on


And Magic. Magic.


Love, and theatre,

They became one and the same.


And I like reading in between the lines,

But sometimes

The emotions playing across the page

Like preschoolers playing with their words

Are too solid

Too concrete

To alive to ignore.

Love. Love. Love.


Love, noun, verb, adjective,

What is love? Magic.

I need love.
I need someone to trust,

Someone to hold me and to give me respite

From the harsh realities of the world.

And it’s a long class

And it’s been a long day

And I have a long life,

Ahead of me

And so I sit,



Wishing praying, not to a god I never believed in,

Not to mother, not to Emma Watson...

And I continue on, reading above, beyond, and between the lines.

“And it is one sick love story”

But God at least it feels real.

And no I’m not talking

“The fault in our Stars”

I’m speaking “Romeo and Juliet”

Because even if a lesson on

What not to do

I want it, God I want it,

Because I need somebody to love.

And someday I’ll find my own Romeo,

Or even my own Hazel Grace

To take me home and lay down

Beside me as we pray,

Counting the carefully placed

Paper and plastic stars

Plucked from the heavens

And scotch-taped to the ceilings

Of my imagination.


This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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