"When we can no longer dream, we die" -Emma Goldman

Thursday, November 25, 2010

that scribbly little girl, with a stub of a pencil between her grubby fingers
gnawing at her thumbs to get an understanding of the smoke in her head
the shhhhhhh of the classroom is far too much for her
her hair falls limp, it's life long gone
her clothes are a little too loose, barely noticeable
she averts her gaze and lets her eyes meander to the window
she dreams of being a songbird
soft and delicate on the branch of a tree
adored by all, but from a safe distance
the world falls silent when she opens her mouth
and she can leave this all behind at the flap of her wings
the books slam and she is pulled back to chalk dust and rulers
her dream just a smear on her day, another thing she cannot receive
we've all got white ribbons in the back of our minds, drawers, closets
she is mine. remember, love, dedicate.

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