She Who Still Believes in Fantasy

You think me smart

and obedient

and serious

and harsh

A loved one among scholars

I snap flies

before they snap my ignorance

Holding pens

Mimicking others

You think me wrong

I do so to elude from harm

One has to adapt

for an environment

or become

a prey for beasts

But the old me

hasn’t went away a bit

She comes out sometimes

Yes, the sweet little thing

Running around catching butterflies

before balancing on a cliff

Her words are true

not a bit of filth

And her actions too

frank and saved from sin

But she gets scolded a bit

So she hides in my heart when uneeded

She is a light, or a comforter mostly

A companion of fairies

A speaker to dragons

I still call for her

when I’m stressed

She lifts the heavy soul

with magic and colors

What beautiful times

they were