What Twenty-Seven Letters Dare to Say

I dislike making choices and singling out,

but dare I say, I dislike the stress of bland numbers and the staleness of eggs.

I dislike the passing of time, and the aches for a rewind.

And I dislike writing about myself and thinking about things that I dislike.

And dare I say, that I dislike, along with that feeling when finished with something life changing,

the sight of spots,

and ketchup.

And dare I say I hate arrogance, and the picking at people’s faults and weaknesses.

Dare I say, I love the space between stars, and the rambling of lips and twitching of eyes during endless talks of secret obsessions.

I love the numbness of the cold as you step on crunchy leaves, and the sound and sight of innocent laughter.

I love the moments minds replay in slow-motion, and the songs that seem to sing right along.

And the icy aches of worn out wrists when they’ve been writing all night long,

welcoming the dusk and making their way past the dawn.

I love lists and smelly books, and the sounds of Christmastime.

With cartoons and comic-books, and the light of rainy days that bring along a warm petrichor.

I love characters, and complexities, and when animals smile,

and words, and small parts that make wholes not easily forgotten.

Dare I say, I wish to fly, and sail through the whole-wide-world,

Experiencing the dew drops in countries I’ve never seen.

And try banana splits, and be part of Mickey’s Philharmagic: Making movies; making worlds; making people happy for the rest of my life.

And maybe I’m just a dreamer, or wasting prayers on the extraordinarily impossible,

but I long for the world to see the pixies fly, and feel the magic of gentle, selfless sonnets.

And maybe I’m just a jar of glitter rocks and colors, waiting to paint the world with rainbows of mirth.

Or maybe, I dare say, I’m just a simple storyteller, of blunt pencils and inked pages, waiting to capture the songs of the Earth.

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