Little girl dreams,
Maybe of becoming a ballerina?
An artist? Or even possibly a policewoman?
But now that she's older,
Those dreams fall to the ground,
And shatter, amid countless others.
She thinks maybe there is a thing called fate.
Is that whats stopping her dreams?
Is that why she feels them drifting away from her?
She doesn't know, but she remembers.
She remembers being a little girl,
Hoping to become someone special, someone famous,
Someone talented and beautiful when it was time.
Time for her to unfurl her wings and present herself.
But now she wonders why,
Why she ever thought she could make it.
After all, she should have known she couldn't, right?
Little girls don't know any better,
They think all their dreams and wishes will come true.
But when they are older, they know better,
And they know that there are no painted flowers in the wild,
They know the dismal truth of fate and dreams.
For now she knows, that when she walks into the forest,
The only way that she can see painted flowers,
Are in her dreams, but not in reality.
Only in her dreams.
