Ode to Fans
Why call yourself trash?
Always acting the vestiges of waste,
Ashamed of yourself, hiding your face
Beneath dirty hands, perfectly clean.
Only whispered secrets reveal you;
What you create, surrounded by an empty room
Covered wall to wall in guilty pleasures;
Knick-knacks and bright posters your secret pride.
You repeat the words of the blind, unaware.
Of the beauty, talent, and magnitude
Of what you do, what you see,
Swirling into reality from a dimension
Moving flat on pages and
Echoing from screens in digital voices
Turning characters not your own and
Creating stories that send you
Soaring into your personal enchantment.
Surrounded by friends you bloom in pearlescent smiles,
Become childhood heroes, legends, and dreams!
Your eyes shine with what you love,
And your tongue trips over fantasy,
Your excitement spreading
As a willful wind,
And lifting them up within
The storm bursting from your chest.