What if the Evil Queen was good.

What if good fell and evil stood.

If Red Riding Hood was manipulative,

Who’s to say the wolf wasn’t just miscommunicated.

What if Alice was an ugly brat,

Then don’t blame Mr. Caterpillar for blowing steam out of his hat.

In today is yesterday’s sorrow,

These people might know what we won’t know tomorrow.

I’d trust them,

Except for that fellow in green,

The one with the crocodile,

That boy is mean.

Let’s go to their land,

Make friends in new places,

See all of our childhood favorites with new faces.
 

My phone rings beside me,
I look down,
See the name.
My hands shake,

My throat tightens,
I feel dizzy,
Like I might faint
Or throw up.

After all this time, why now?
Why call four times in one day?
Why can’t you leave me be?

I thought you’d forgotten me.
I was just another friend who you’d hurt
And then pushed away.

I finally made peace with it,
Stopped feeling like I’d failed you,
Moved on.

But now,
All the bad feelings flow back,
I’m scared,
And alone.

 

Fat and plump from tomato leaves.

Inching across on tiny sticky legs.

Stuffing its ungainly body.

Stripping stems bare.

Leaving only shreds.

It dared to show its face.

It was frighteningly ugly.

Not even birds would peck it.

The worm was gargantuan.

Flailing its jaws.

Rearing its horn menacingly.

A not-so-miniature monster.

Sentenced to banishment.

For slicing tomato stems

Enlarging its pudgy temples.

A summer came and passed by fast. 
Leaving nothing but empty mass. 
In colors of orange and red and gold,
 will mark colors of death as summer foretold. 
Gone away are fire lit nights, 
The sweet sent of midday rain, 
the pretty sights of morning twilights. 

The sweetest flowers once bloomed in your wake, 
Lilac, 
Daisy, 
and Sunflowers,
now leave not an earthly trace. 
Summer's beauty, you may take,
but you can't sow a field with yellow lace.

They say all stars burn out eventually, 
so is true of summer stars. 
They bloom and flourish right in your hand, 
then disappear to a far off land. 
Demands are made and promises kept,  
will you soon sing again? 

Shall spring never compare to thy lighter brest? 
Will the deers still prance and birds still sing, 
under winter's turbulent test? 
Or must they wait again for you? 

I thought I was good at this.
The whole
"Say goodbye and move on"
ordeal.
I told myself it was routine
and it was exhilarating every time.
I used to hail change as my savior,
because it felt like despite
my stable home
I was still wrapped in a blanket
of turmoil.

I love adventuring.
I love the unfamiliarity.
I crave chaos like it craves me.
There was nothing I loved more
than my muscles twitching with anticipation
just waiting for my next move,
the spontaneity
and the unexpected
that was vast enough to swallow me whole.
I loved that.

Or so I thought.

I was raised in this world
to move like a sprint,
to pounce as if it was my vice.
I was fine with that,
I accepted that and believed it.

Why am I hesitating?
Why are there clothes scattered on my floor,
littered like the bodies of old versions of myself?

only those dark
stars ever see
what i do.
 

All the ideas are taken
and I don’t know what I should write.
Being one inch tall and a giant awakens?
Or maybe the power of flight?

No, it’s been done; I’ve seen it before!
To steal their ideas would be theft.
I’m sitting here with an empty page,
but there are simply no ideas left!

You see, Hollywood knows what it’s doing –
rebooting an old film or just making a sequel.
And if that doesn’t work
‘cause they need some green,
who’s to stop them from making a prequel?

But I don’t want to do that.
I want to be new! To make something fresh and exciting.
If I had been born
a hundred years in the past,
I’d have so many ideas for my writing!

Then my 6-year-old bro says,
“Wouldn’t it be cool – the story of an outer space hen?”
And I look at my page, start writing things down,
realizing what a big fool I have been.