Imagined Words

When I was young
I used the write stories and poetry
In my head.

Too quick for pen and paper
The stories unfolded before my mind’s eye,
Like drops of rain I could try
To catch them,
But surely I would miss too many to try,

I would lie in bed
With words my dreams,
With words the sheep I would count,
But surely with such tales on play
There was no way rest I would take

I would imagine the words
Being spoken from my mouth,
The thought of the sound of my own voice,
Catching and releasing the words from my lips,
And yet not a noise would be made.

When I was young
I was a dreamer,
An artist,
A dream artist,
Painting mental pictures
Of the imagined works
of this poetess.

What If (The Dream)

She fears the steps,
She must take in becoming,
What if she trips?
What if she falls?
What if her dreams are much to big for her small body?
What if?
What if her what ifs are the wrong inquiries?
What if her dreams are just right for her size,
And the ground should rise up to meet her,
Easing her landing?
What if the scariest part is letting go,
And sliding into the unknown,
What if imagining “what if”,
Is symptomatic of a dreamers urge to wonder;
That which should ne’er subside?
Unless the dreamer loses the very gift of the dream