In my daydreams, 
I don't finger the bright beads of the keychain that asks
       what Jesus would do. 
I don't remember my role models. 
I don't sing songs that make me happy. 
I don't sit down and pour my heart out
     over a non-lucid computer keyboard. 
In those daydreams that surge across my mind and heart and eyes like
Fire, 
I burn, 
I scream, yell. 
I curse. Yes, I, 
innocent little girl, 
curse so that I blush to think of it, to begin to write down the words. 
I tell everyone exactly what I feel
and then some. 
I finish by slapping with my hand, open palm
     or by punching a wall, 
     or kicking a doorframe, or
I give one last scream, and I run off, and 
I leave them all, faces astonished, seeing for once what 
I can feel.