I knew a witch once, of course she was a good witch, a white witch or so she said
Although I noticed if you ever ****** her off, she wouldn't be long turning into a Black witch
Suddenly she was going to use her power and put a spell on me and I'd be sorry
"Yeah, yeah, yeah", I thought, "there's always the scary mask, isn't there"
No matter where you go in this world
You go to a solicitor/ a Lawyer and they pull out all the legal jargon to bamboozle you with
You go to the Tax Office and it's all Taxspeak, they speak in a strange language all their own
They look human at first but then, then they pull on the scary mask
You go to church and it's all so called Godspeak from out of the Bible
They dress in fancy robes and speak down to you from a pulpit
And of course, the church is very big and well, you! you're very small
And the world likes people made small...the smaller the better
Yea! there's always the scary mask
But what about the human behind the mask
Where's the human that was... that was once a child.

Outside on the city streets the wail of sirens
But me! I'm not concerned
'Cos I got *****... ***** made of Iron
Yeah! ***** of Ire..Ron, ***** of I-Iron!!!🎵🎶🎵

Hey Mister I ain't a Boy and I ain't your Son
Me! I'm just a... I'm just an Angel without a gun.

When my oldest brother, Todd,
came back for my mom's funeral,
he had this light about him.
His face was a poem.
Sure, he was the oldest, and he
had a healthy-looking tan from the
hot New Mexico sun, working
outside with turquoise, silver,
and bear claws to make
jewelry for the tourists, but there
was more than that.

He was an artist, and all artists have
a fractured ease about things, but he
lit up.  Something from the inside
projected out.
He comforted everyone else, we leaned
on him.  His eyes oozed serenity.

A few calendars later, when I traveled
back for his funeral, I saw the same
look on a few of his friends' faces.
His wife told me after the service
that Todd had gotten sober years before.

One night, I lay on the roof of my uncle’s car,
the hush of metal beneath my back,
the sky a cathedral of stars above me.
I was ten—
barefoot, breathless,
a soft creature still untouched by the weight of knowing.

I gazed upward,
as if the constellations could answer questions
I didn’t yet know how to ask.

And a strange thought drifted through the dark:
Will I remember this?
This stillness, this smallness,
this girl stretched across a car roof
believing the stars were close enough to touch.

Now I wonder—
how odd it is to know someone so well
who knows nothing of me.
She lives in my marrow,
but I am a ghost to her.
A whisper never spoken.
A future never imagined.

She couldn’t have foreseen
the weight I would carry,
the cracks I’d survive,
the nights I would look up,
but no longer feel wonder.

Did she know
we would be alright?
Or that “alright” would mean enduring
a thousand quiet heartbreaks
before finding the strength
to reach for the stars again?

If I could fold the sky and speak through time,
I’d tell her—
You made it. You did so well.
Thank you for holding on when it was hardest.
Thank you for dreaming when the world was still kind.
You planted the seeds.
I only grew from your light.

And to the woman I am yet to meet—
the future self still waiting in the wings of time—
I don’t know your face,
only the shimmer of your possibility.

But I promise you this:
I will keep going.
For you.
Through every storm,
every silence,
every starless night.

Know me
as the girl who stayed.
Who bore the weight.
Who held on.

And when it's your turn—
fly.