Just A Fairytale

Free-verse poems

They all start,

With a “Once upon a time”

Setting the stage

Of a fairytale

Bound to have a magical

Happy Ever After

But it is said

That life

Is not a fairytale

That the “Once upon a time”

Doesn’t exist

That the fairytale is just

A figment of imagination

That Happy Ever After’s

Are cruel jokes

And that all that is left

Is the cruelty

The pain

The greed

It is true that

Hope is scarce

It is the

Rainbow in a cloudy sky

The perfect among the evil

The good in Pandora’s Box

Not much

But a little is enough

To chase way the bad dreams

The dark eating at light

The monster under the bed


We look inside of ourselves

And find

The little, beating Hope there

Needing protection

Against the words

The hate

Hope is the shield,

But also its bearer

It protects itself

Against the people

Who do not have Hope

Who do not believe in a Happy Ever After

The people who discourage imagination

The people who do not believe in


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Another poem... I was always taught to hope.  That there was a reason that it was created.  Hope allows us to carry on day by day, climbing over the obstacles.  Sometimes, we may stumble or fall, but we must pick ourselves up, not lie in the dust, watching others climb over the mountain.  Everyone has their own problems to overcome, and it is important that we have hope to fuel us along.

nightlight1220's picture

Life is a contradiction

Life is a contradiction within itself. After every storm there is sunshine, every tragedy brings opportunity for new life and with it, change, struggle, triumph and disappointment. We choose the depth and heights of our joys and sorrows as we live, by how we live. Hope is indeed a blessing for every journey we make, and through it's presence we learn that the villains that lurk in every fairytale are indeed very real. They are real on the outside, and they are real on the inside, and every once upon a time's happily ever after has a new once upon a time with the same characters in each stage of the play, but with hope, we learn that continuing transformation of the self can endure anything that life dishes out. It is nothing like it is in the child's mind. Indeed cruel is the picture they get.


Very nicely written.


...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."

"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "