Usually, I write my name on a paper,
pretending it's already the tomorrow
that I wait for everyday.
I call it out loud, the sound of it
so foreign but secure.
Usually, I dream of things unobtainable,
and look at my name that's still unknown,
unheard of.
I, a seed, longing for years to see the green,
my wishes are the stars.
Usually, my todays and imagined
tomorrows don't form a straight line.
I keep weaving words into happy tales anyway,
where miracles connect reality to fantasy,
where my ordinary is why I am exotic,
where everything impossible happens easily.
Usually, I am a poet, who succeeds in persuading
her darkness that it is where the light is born.
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