I can’t rhyme;
It’s not my thing.
I like to write,
I like to sing,
I like to sleep
huddled in my bed,
my blankets warm
and big and red.
I like to play
out in the snow
until my mom yells
“time to go!”
I like to hug
my teddy bear
and close my eyes
while saying prayer,
and watch TV shows
in rewind
starting up at
season nine.
I still like to play
make-believe
where I, the princess,
go retrieve
the prince,
for he’s weak in this game
and more than not
he’s got no name.
I make long lists,
and color, too,
with 96 crayons.
I go to the zoo.
I like to play
hide-and-go-seek
but shh! don’t tell…
I sometimes peak.
I like to dance
without my shoes,
I like to spin,
and count by twos.
I like to write
short poetry,
I like to feel
my soul set free.
I like to hear
lame, cheesy jokes,
eat hard boiled eggs,
but not the yolks.
I like to look up
at the sky
and scream my voice out
way up high
and hear it echo
off the walls
then run inside
and make prank calls.
I like to act
and dance and sing
But I don’t rhyme;
it’s not my thing.