Sometimes, I like to scribble
my goals and hopes and aspirations
on post-its with crayons
pressed hard against paper
and brush away the crusts of wax
that cake the surface
before sticking them
onto the blank wall and weave dreamy words into dragon scales
of colored post-its
like Rumplestiltskin
spinning straw
into gold
– a lie? but

most of them peel off, stuck
to each other,crumpled
and torn into rough
and ugly strips of
colorful lies, of colorful failures
too bright, too
saturated,into the trashcan below.
They fall in groups
as if the Pied Piper of Hamelin
was luring them down
with his magic pipe.

This is where dreams pass
into the reality of fiction.