This is the story of us, the story of you, the story of me.
And there’s loose pages and promises of forever and more
And there’s a smell of yesterday, of tomorrow she’s sure,
And there’s laughter and raindrops and ice creams and wings
And there’s a flower and magic and of their castle they’re kings,
And there’s seven, and dancing, and wishing to fly,
And there’s a soft sort of smile as they set fire to the sky
And there’s always, and never, and forever, and now.
And there’s whispers and giggles and some secret vow.
And there’s fairytales and dreaming, and one hidden kiss.
But mostly there’s her.
And she’s most proud of this.
And the children are screaming, but her?
She's
hopelessly dreaming.
She is fifteen and hopeless and she thinks that’s alright.
And she’s single, but happy, she doesn’t need a Knight.
She’s painted, and written, and occasionally a tune.
And she’s sunset, and sunrise, and autumn is soon.
She’s far away, and right here, and a fantasy love.
And she’s special, and different, and she dreams of above.
She’s cloud watching, and skipping, and really, a child.
And she’s crazy, and hyper, and is surprisingly wild.
She’s books and she’s paper, ink splatters and a pen.
And she’s ready, and waiting, and “Just tell me when”
She’s friends and she’s family, and without them she’s lost.
And she’s there for them first, no matter the cost.
She’s Elizabeth, and Brackers, and maybe Snow White.
And she’s most of all Phoebe, with all of her might.
She’s happy, and carefree, and in senior school.
And she’s not always smart, but she’s never a fool.
She’s not perfect, or graceful, or anything fair.
But she is who she is, and she doesn’t really care.
I am scribbled words and awake I am dreamed.
I am softly spoken, silently screamed.
I am rainbows filled with black and white.
I am the sun shining bright in the blackest of night.
I am dresses and beads and that old broken heel.
I am loud and I’m soft and I’m learning to feel.
I am tasteless and broken and I cannot hear.
I am beautiful and ugly but I’m nothing to fear.
I am that first ridiculous name, you gave to your pet.
I am that old cliche; that you can’t quite forget
I am missing pages, and one short of ten.
I am minus c-major, and addition of them.
I am yesterday, and tomorrow, and always, but not.
I am that reminder that was forgotten and tied in a knot.
I am whispered, and shouted, and I play the part.
I am body, and soul, but mostly I’m heart.