In distant Boldmere, where dreams do dwell,
There reigns a sprite named Tinkerbell.
Not just a fairy, small and spry,
But mischief’s princess, soaring high.

Her wings agleam with dust so fine,
She flits and flies, a spark divine.
With twinkling eyes and laughter bright,
She weaves her tricks from day to night.

She’ll swap the pirates’ maps for fun,
And lead them on a frantic run.
She’ll tangle mermaids’ flowing hair,
And leave them floundering in despair.

The Lost Boys’ games she’ll twist and bend,
Just to watch their tempers end.
She’ll hide the things they need the most,
Then giggle from her secret post.

Yet, despite her impish play,
Her heart is pure, a guiding ray.
For her brother , she’ll always care,
A loyal friend through all they dare.

So here’s to Tink, the sprite so grand,
The Princess of Mischief in Neverland.
With every flutter, every spell,
Long live the reign of Tinkerbell!

A Candle
's flame
-the most
selfless of light-
Consuming itself,
to
Illuminate night.

Because
I can take a piece of paper
And write our story
To be whatever we want
And then dream together

How strange, the silvery strands of rain,
tuck against the ***** canopies forlorn,
the sky an unwritten paper-white
and I
feel it slipping; the control of life (I ought to keep)
as droplets keep dripping and writhing,
the starless night keeps spinning.

They keep talking about
the things to do after graduation,
as if
life is always this mundane line of time we're facing,
never stagnating, always wailing
in the distance, its heavy alarms not changing.
**** this societal construction,
virtually leaching, draining, money keeping
capitalist ******* we're never willingly leaving
behind.

How strange, the silvery strands of rain,
the only thing real, the only honest feeling
of mine.

© fey (18/05/24)

In the morning, I woke up to your note on my kitchen counter-
I tore it up.
I don’t want it anymore.
I made tea, which spilt, and then I used the scraps to mop it up.

I washed the bed sheets.
I left the house and traded the kettle for an orange at the market because,
Lately that is what I love.
It was beautiful and ripe; fruit has never tasted so sweet and pure.

The next morning, I walked out into the garden before the sun.
The grass was cool and dewy between my toes.
I covered an orange seed with the soil in my palms.
It was easy. I will grow a tree. I’m glad I exist.

Little Miss Muffet
sat on a tuffet,
eating her curds and whey.

Along came a spider
who sat down beside her,
and yet she does not stray.

Though an arachnid–
preferable sidekick,
better than being slain.

For, vacant across the room:
“A stool?” No! a tomb!
where he-wolf lies in wait.

The problem with me
Is
I’m such a fan of my poetry
Each written honestly
Feelings bared
For all to see
Which naturally
Bums me out
When nobody notices me
Got my **** right out so publicly
Jiggling, wiggling, ******* are free
All this soulful ******
And not a soul who wants to see