Swirling in my head, a floating sensation.
A phrase that usually condemns you to eternal damnation.
From Salem to a faraway land with a hard-to-pronounce-name.
“Magic is not real” is screamed in the face of me, a person who won’t tame.
Crystal balls tell the truth while plumes of smoke shoot out at random.
Explaining the intuition you have and keeping your secret in tandem.
Think of Roald Dahl and the way his books make you feel.
Kick yourself for thinking that his stories aren’t real.
Bottles of potions and drinks whose bubbles fall down.
Witches that steal children, creating chaos that reaches the whole town.
Seeing Matilda in yourself and yourself in her.
Knowing that you’re different from the other kids, the lines you do blur.
We aren’t taught how to believe because our minds are too powerful.
Shoving our magic into more useful planter boxes that are anything but flowerful.
Witches who become artists, wizards who become singers.
Writing, painting, sewing, the shimmery glow that lingers.
Life is mysterious, unknown and full of danger.
An entirely different perception in the mind of a stranger.
My poems are spells, though I don’t intend them to be.
I can clear through the fog, open my eyes and see.
Magic is real, it’s in me and you.
Question everything, especially the things you believe to be true.
I end this spell with a quick little note.
Go back and find the magic in everything you’ve painted, sang, and wrote.