To be that girl.
The one who spins love like a hurricane
piloting a leaky faucet.
Who sings to her own song
and wears flowers in her hair.
A girl who is allergic to impossible
her will is consummate.
She attracts their ‘wild’ whispers
and collects them in her fervent heart.
That girl. Who’s feet are dirty
because it complements her eyes’ sparkle.
Miss ‘thunderstorms are my favorite’
they cite more than just memories.
Scattering joy in her breeze
gulping life where others dare to sip.