Wednesday, Aug. 03, 2005 / 12:53 a.m.
In My Mind

I spend too much time in fantasy
Or so my third grade teacher said
But she never explained to my parents
Why I live inside my head

Caught up in stories
Exaulting happiness and never-ending woe
It always seemed assured
Writing was the direction I would go

As pretty as dreams are
Tied with bows and many strings
I was trained to value
More substancial things

A small fortune, monetary sums
Living as a writer I'd never make
Drilled into my head in captivity
Until I had no choice but to break

So off went notebooks of poetry on the shelves
Never to be brought out except when by myself
Hoping against hope that some day I'd find
The stories I long ago began in my mind