Living Stories

Wispy clouds of mist swimming through my fingers,

Drops of rain hang from branches over my head,

A soft wet field of grass beneath my bare feet,

A sheet of smooth, soft silk for my bed.

In my imagination, my stories come alive.

I fly with dragons and elves through every day.

I laugh and talk with angels and birds of fire,

And while racing giants, reality feels far away.

I listen to all of their stories and tales,

I never forget a feather or scale,

For I gave them their stories, I gave them a life,

And they dance with me joyfully all day and night.

When reality calls me, we cry together,

For here in this world we are sister and brother,

In my world, no one judges you by your size,

What clothes you wear, the color of your eyes,

For giants are large, and fairies are small,

as for dragons-why, they don't need clothes at all!

Who cares if you have one eye or two eyes or four,

You can still see, after all, that's what eyes are for.

In the real world, first they look at your face.

If your hair is a mess, you must be a disgrace.

Then your shirt, shoes, pants, arms and then hands,

And if you're ugly to them, things won't go as you planned.

Then, if you look fine, they check if you're smart.

Almost the last thing they check is what's in your heart.

I've been judged by the way that i think.

To some, I'm a genius, to others, a freak.

I know that I'm different, I know that I'm strange,

But why would I want any of that to change?

I'm beautiful from what I see,

That's confidence, not vanity.

But I don't think of these things on my own,

With my fantasy friends, I'm never alone.

Copyright September 18, 2014 by Christina Gatchel. This post may not be copied or reproduced without express permission from the author. (That would be me.)