My Childish Dream

Every night before I went to bed I would pray. I would seldom pray for myself. I lay on my Barbie princess bed and press my hands together and press my eyes tightly shut and just go in. I would hope that Jesus and God would take away the illness and suffering. I hoped that somehow people wouldn’t have to know pain—true pain.

I revisit that childish dream often. Not because I am naïve, on the contrary, I’m a person who is quite skeptical and very in tune with the reality of the situation. I know that romance is nothing like I read in dozens of stories as a child. I know that people hate. I know that abuse, murder and mayhem exist. I know that someone somewhere wants to take their life or the lives of others amongst other things and I also know that most of all there is nothing I can do to immediately stop it all.

I don’t revisit my childish dream for wishful thinking rather because child me, despite knowing of the horrors of the world, still believed that somehow it could change. She thought and desperately believed that somehow the world could be truly beautiful for everyone everywhere. She was very aware but she dared to dream in the impossible. I admire that kid for that.

Do I still believe in that little prayer? The simple answer is yes, the more complicated response is I don’t know how anymore. I don’t know if we can change the direction of the world but what I DO know is that it’s going to take more than prayer and kindness.

How do we turn this world into one children believe in?

© Kyanna Kitt

The Drive-Thru

“You’re welcome.”

“Yeah—no, actually I didn’t thank you,” after a few moments the driver blurted clarification, “you weren’t thanked, sir.”

Knowing he had just started something he wasn’t sure he’d willfully continue, he drove on to the next window shaking his head. Why, oh, why did his mouth always get the best of him. It was a long 17 feet before the drive-thru window slammed open.

A tall lanky guy stuffed the intercom below his chin. His boney fingers slammed into the keys of the computer with a breathy sigh. “$7.71,” his hand stuck out the window palm both up and impatient.

Tossing and shoving ice into a large cup behind him was a dry-faced ghettoish girl that was heavily made up. There was nothing more than a smear of bright silver eyeshadow across her lids.  Her bright pink lipstick was lined with a very, very dark brown. She was something unique to be seen. Her greasy hair was up in what I’m assuming was a ponytail.

I’m so writing a bad review.

The cashier shoves the bag through the window essentially dropping it through the drivers grasp. “Here.”

And calling the 1-800 number.

The driver rustled through the bag. “No, no, no—I said the deluxe burger with no pickles. You gave me a fish sandwich.” Will these people ever get their shit together?

“Oh yeah,” the cashier inquired with a smirk resting his arms on the ledge of the window, “that’s funny ‘cause when I read it back I said fish sandwich meal, extra pickles,”

The driver spat his drink.

“Oh—and DIET coke,” he grinned slamming the window shut.


“Alright you damn asshole. You give me a reason why I should pull over and ring your damn neck,” the driver forced from under his tight upper lip.

“It’s a crime,” the cashier fired back handing him another small brown bag with grease stains all over the bottom.

“What the hell did you just say?”

“Maybe even a felony. Kind of depends on the circumstances Sir.

“Give me back my damn card you son of a bitch—shit,” he glanced at the clock right before snatching his card from the clerk’s hands, “I’m going to be late.”

Stepping on the gas the driver’s drink spilled all over his lap.

© Kyanna K.

Learning to Run

I sometimes find myself wondering about true love. I’ve been in a few relationships. None that were worth fighting for. None that made me feel any differently than I do now. It’s kind of funny when you think about it. As a little girl, I read stories about princes. A guy comes along and makes you feel like the most beautiful most important girl in the world. I’ve learned enough about the world to believe with absolute certainty that such story is very far removed from the reality in which I live.

As a woman in her upper 20s, I’ve also learned that no degree of femininity guarantees you fair treatment or a great guy. The truth is every draw is as random as the winning lotto numbers. While I’m not in complete denial that romance and love exist, I’m almost a hundred percent certain that it doesn’t exist for everyone.

What’s a heart for is it’s not for loving? Nobody wants to be alone in life but I think more than anything, nobody wants to feel like they aren’t loved. To feel such a way is truly awful but what if that person does come along? What if they’re right under your nose and still all those negative things are still up at your neck? What would it take to make you move?

Just like that old Smokey Robinson song, “something has to make you run.”

© Kyanna K.


I wonder whether birds fly objectively. When they flap their wings, and charge their path, if they’re moving knowingly. Even when the wind is rough and sun won’t shine and still they fly and fly and fly.

When they glide through and through relentless squalls and still—I’ve become curious about their sweet candor. Daunted by forces beyond their will and still they fly. And they fly like they flew and have flown and always will.

© Kyanna Kitt


You bother me like a person who simply can’t understand. I break my ideas down to child speak and still there is no clear semblance. When you see me in the morning, in presence of other you seem different. Have I not nurtured you? Did I not give you when I had nothing? Did I not dance with you even when you turned and looked away?

I wonder how many clever ways I can explain or express what I feel—or at least what I felt. When you selectively endear me and somehow on most fundamental of bases feed my erasure, how do you explain that you care about me? How can you claim friendship even platonically? I’ve shielded the bitter cold from reaching your sweet skin. I’ve held you when you had nothing left. Not to protect your pride but to protect you.

I forsook myself to make you whole and still—that look. Those eyes.

©Kyanna Kitt


I smell the flowers all the time

I walk between the blades of rye

I lift my head beyond their leaves

I pray dear Lord, upon the eve


And in the night beneath ruffled throw

Between the clouds, I’ll surely go

And in the morn before I wake

The kindest gift He’ll surely take


For in the night when I’m alive

When pain is gone and sorrow dies

A fearsome tome of jaded feat

Allures my heart; the great deceit


© Kyanna Kitt