I understand why people cease to believe in dreams.
Age teaches us that we don't always get the things
Children don't get ponies
And women often don't get diamond rings.
After a few disappointments
We stop getting mad at Santa Claus
And the man we lost
And we start to blame the dreams.
But I really do believe
That the sentiments lying at the core of things
You can teach someone what's right and wrong,
But none of us can change what we feel.
I want a man whose features are as artistically chiseled
As his heart is deep
Perhaps not because he's an archetype
But because I want to be a beauty queen.
I didn't study anthropology because
I don't like to dig for buried things.
I find my pleasure in words because
I can tell myself that they are only what they seem
On the surface.
I don't have the diligence
to find the hidden things in you.
I want to get what I see.
I put a lot of stock in a face's value.
I don't pretend to be profound
And you shouldn't try to make an example out of me.
Because I am just a girl
Who enjoys the simple things –
pretty faces, accents, and vigorous workout routines.
The creature comforts –
Southern born, corn-fed boys whose mamas made them read.
I'm no more advanced than that five-year-old girl
Who cried because she got a kitten instead of a pony.
I'm no more realistic than clapping
Your hands to prove you believe in fairies.
And I'm no more enlightened than one
Who treats dreams like they could be reality.