Fortune Cookie Dreams
Sometimes I take my life and mold it,
shape it like old, cracked Play-Doh,
trying to fit it into the clandestine reams of paper
that hide in fortune cookies.
I am dying to make those sweet-talking slips,
enticing with their idealism,
if only so I know
that I am not falling through the fingertips of fate,
unabashedly sifted aside like the grains of sand
in life's hourglass.
I just want to believe that
someone, somewhere out there
knows my story,
how my life is going to play out:
maybe like a horror movie or a soap opera
or with the urgency of an old black-and-white newsreel
on those little paper slips.
I want those faded, blue-inked words,
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