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The Bumps on my Ceiling (a poem)

Updated: Feb 2

I study the bumps and dents in the ceiling

like stars that seem as close,

like you could almost touch their surface;

and I can. I can reach up

from my cloud-like bed

and run my fingers through a sparkling sea.

see the ripples in the navy-blue yonder,

the light glittering as if it were made by itself

with no reflected help, it’s original luminescence

sparks my interested passion and twinkles in my blue-rimmed, green eyes.

I’m mesmerized. I’m reaching.

I’m a heaven-touching space cadet,

not even obtaining my full potential

just yet.

but I will. I WILL walk on the moon.

I’ll leave footprints for my grand-babies to find.

And they’ll reach even further—they’ll stake claim to Mars!

Because the future is ours—inheritance if we

would take the chance—not second-guessing,

but giving second glances

to childhood fantasies, days fill with pretending

we could fly, we could ride, we could slay, we could be

anything we could see.

and we can see it still—

the daydreamers and overcomers.

reach out. go on, kiddo. touch them—the realities we create.

after all,

they’re only as real

as we’ll let them be.

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