Superstitions

Being a superstitious realist is one of the oddest things to be.

It's crossing my fingers and

trying to spot the second Mynah bird hidden in the bush and

secretly sharing chain mails on long-been-silent groups.

It's knowing that none of it will amount to anything,

yet I'd pluck out all my eyelashes and spend them wishing for you.

Author's Note

A few odd lines that aren't really a poem, but I wanted to post it anyway. There should be a category on here called "paragraph".