Let Me In Your Secret Fairy Club

This is my official declaration,
hopefully the beginning of a transition,
I’ve decided I’d much rather be a fairy.
Being non-magical no longer appeals to me.
I’m sick of not flying and not living in a tree.
I know rent’s cheap round where I stay, but I’ve heard very good things about their economy.
And I always wanted
more than this.
More than the over-average ordinary day-in day-out drag.
The nine to five, work to survive,
only get to feel alive on the weekends
kind of life.
It’s not for me.
I’m catching falling stars every time you leave,
spinning stories on the curve of every line.
I’ve got a hairbrush full of adventure
waiting to be combed through,
the only ingredient left to get’s a set of wings.

So I’m addressing this poem to the Fairy Embassy,
in the hopes you’ll find me a strong candidate.
I’m already smaller than all of my friends
and that’s not where the resemblance ends.
I’ve got a heart like the forest –
ever-growing, and defiant,
and there may be ivy clinging to my trees,
but doesn’t it make the land look greener?

See? Optimism.
Fairy trait number one.
I’m also charming, enchanting, modest –
and not the seventh son of the seventh son,
cause that’d make me a wizard.
But to be honest, I wouldn’t mind.
I’ll take anything superhuman,
just sign me up, let’s get moving.
Do what you gotta do to equip me with wings instead of sighs.

I enclose this poem
with an IOU of twenty pounds,
payable on receipt of the aforementioned wings.

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