The little girl just couldn't understand why the freckles on her arm weren't numbered like the ones in her coloring books.
The period and the comma were fighting again.
"You know what," said the comma, "We should really slow things down"
"No" said the period, "I've had enough. I'm putting an end to this."
The ballerina stubbed her twirling toe,
So she danced on her hands instead.
The little boy asked the tree why he was holding his breath
"To stop the leaves from growing, we had a fall out"
As the peewee-peas popped out of their parent-pod, they puttered around and pondered their purpose on the planet.
The boy told the girl she wasn't what he had dreamed she would be.
Then he woke up.
In my eyes, work does not equal a job, and my job is not my work.
My work is my passion.
It's what I wake up for in the morning and what I dream about at night.
My work is what moves me to not be sad for too long over things I cannot change.
My work is what drives me to look at the world with an open mind, an open heart, and open arms.
My work is who I am.
My job is how I pay rent.