The Hope in a Story Book

Oh, Mr. Grimm, write me a fairy tale.

I want to be a princess.

I want to be stunningly beautiful, so everyone will be forced to stop and stare and point at me.

“Who is that?” they will ask.

Oh, Mr. Grimm, write me a fairy tale.

Take me away in the wind.

This world is much to small for me.

Too basic, the standards are.

Too biased, the people are.

Too depressing, is society.

Too conifining, are the walls of what I know call “my home.”

This is not my home, Mr. Grimm.

I want to have a pumpkin carriage, a library with thousands of books, a Queen say that I am more beautiful than her, and hell, even have her turn into a witch and try to poison me for it.

I want a prince to have the desire to kiss me.

That is my dream, Mr. Grimm.

I want that magical kiss that you hear about at the end of fairy tales.

The kiss that’s capable of breaking spells, curing poisons, and waking gorgeous princesses.

A soft, gentle kiss that is the start to the happiest of endings and the truest of loves.

Oh, Mr. Grimm, can you write me into a fairy tale?

Take me away into the wind?

Make them wonder who I am?

Make them care for once?

Or did my story books lie to me as a kid?