I dreamed of growing up to be
Something in creativity,
To write fiction and poetry,
To live carefree, to live carefree.
They said I wasn’t practical,
My dream was truly fanciful,
And it was even laughable,
And magical, just magical.
But I find magic all around:
In maples red and golden crowned,
In birds and streams, deep underground,
Nature astounds, Nature astounds.
It doesn’t matter what I do;
I am a writer, through and through.
My nine-to-five is not my truth. I always knew, I always knew.