Prompt 15: Childhood Dreams

Prompt 15

Prompt 15: Childhood Dreams

When I grow up

I want to write books

sing in a band

be a pastry cook

I’d scribble in a million libretas

jotting down every thought

not skipping a recipe

or anything I was taught

When mommy woke & went for the kitchen

as did my eyes

I’d sit and read the paper-

I was only but 5.

I’ve always dreamt of seeing my work

In books, publications, articles-

Lurk-ing

I have many dreams that remain stashed in my mind

They too shall come to pass given time.

©copyright Kyanna Kitt

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Prompt 8: Cliché

Prompt 8: Cliché

“The apple never falls far from the tree,” says the poor woman of her child.

Even in her youth

filling her mind with

the same rubbish most hear

others speak upon their worst enemy.

Even taking her journals

and them away

Taking the books she read

as if the meant nothing

and banning them from her-

“It isn’t worth it- you’ll be just like me,”

she said fold a hot basket of clothes-

What children aren’t told is they

don’t have to be like anyone.

Not even mommy and daddy.

Read your books-

Write your journals,

“One day you’ll be a great

writer and will have all the things that were

decided for me not to have,”

she should say.

I remember a book we made

back in grade school on the old colored puzzle carpet-

The one I had vomited on so many times before.

Anyways, I digress. I remember the letters and reading the stories I read-

I’ve had but one still dream and it remains.

Despite what they say,

I am my mothers child.

But I am not my mother.

©copyright Kyanna Kitt

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Prompt 8: Cliché

Prompt 8: Cliché

“The apple never falls far from the tree,” says the poor woman of her child.

Even in her youth

filling her mind with

the same rubbish most hear

others speak upon their worst enemy.

Even taking her journals

and them away

Taking the books she read

as if the meant nothing

and banning them from her-

“It isn’t worth it- you’ll be just like me,”

she said fold a hot basket of clothes-

What children aren’t told is they

don’t have to be like anyone.

Not even mommy and daddy.

Read your books-

Write your journals,

“One day you’ll be a great

writer and will have all the things that were

decided for me not to have,”

she should say.

I remember a book we made

back in grade school on the old colored puzzle carpet-

The one I had vomited on so many times before.

Anyways, I digress. I remember the letters and reading the stories I read-

I’ve had but one still dream and it remains.

Despite what they say,

I am my mothers child.

But I am not my mother.

©copyright Kyanna Kitt

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