I want to be a book of pretty pages
An angel with gossamer ribbons and shiny hair
But all I am is the girl that sees the angels
Not flies like one nor sees the clouds
I want to be a lyric, a book of prose
A landscape
But all I can see are landscapes
I never get to walk among them
Or perhaps a seascape
But I would be the crashing shore
And not the glorious tall boats that shadow the shores
I want to dance in Spanish boots
And feel black lace all over my body
And have roses in my hair
But all I can do is venture in the garden
For I am not allowed to live there
