A while ago, I wrote a poem.
I called it
“The Things that Hold Up Dreams”
I talked about Tennis Shoes and a toy box.
Like I could look back and remember them
with anything other than despair
and spite.

That poem was about a teddy bear
and satin pajamas
and a favorite, old blanket.
It was a poem about all of the wonderful things
my life used to be.

It was a poem about a happy girl in a bunk bed.

It used to be about me.

But I knew it was a dead story
before I ever wrote a word.

I was a doll,
living in a pink house
with nowhere to be.

I was a painted,
Porcelain
Princess
and though my pristine, cold skin shined and glistened
I was so dull.

I dreamt lifeless dreams
my world until him was shallow
and plastic
and pretty
served on a plate without a second thought.

Everything was nice.
It was so nice.
And it was real.
But it hardly meant anything at all.

When I remember my life
defined by the sickly sweet words
of that confused poetry,
I miss it.
Sometimes I would prefer the nausea of ignorance.

Those things that I was before.
Those things that I had before.

They were not
The things that hold up dreams.

They were just dreams.

I asked myself, then…
When I realized that I had written lies,
What are those things?

things that hold up dreams.

I realize now that it is you.
You hold up my dreams.

You, who brings me to my knees with laughter
You, who I have allowed to see me cry
You, who has kindness and heart and will
to be
just to be.  

You are the bones of my hope

The Things that Hold Dreams.

If I could turn back time
I would hit Backspace all day,
Id put on Caps Lock
and SHOUT what I say.

I'd use the whole Alphabet
To tell you hello,
Press seven Numbers
Til you picked up the phone.

I'd Tab through the comments
I didn't want to hear,
And use the Arrow Keys
To drag your body near.

I would Delete the harsh words
I didn't mean to speak,
And Insert the "I love yous"
I before couldn't leak.

I would use Ctrl to
Keep reigns over my heart,
And I would Escape lies
That tore us apart.

I'd Print out your photo
And kiss it goodnight,
Use the Calculator
To check that we were right.

I'd Paint you a picture
of us, you and me,
Then I'd hit Enter
Just so you would see.

Those are the things
I would do in my strife,
If only Backspace
worked in real life.

What is the point in
Poignancy?

Fragment,
you tell me.
Another one in paragraph three.

What do words matter?

I have spelled love with Lilacs instead of an “L”
I have drawn the curve of my “O” with the chill of a
Sweeping breeze.
A “V” can only appear as the violet of a
sparkling sky, or I will be unable to read it,
and every “E” will amount to nothing more than
emptiness if the voice it has been given
does not epitomize song.

Comma-splice,
Replace it with a semicolon.

I am trying live freely.
I want to breathe in color,
to inhale an orange Savannah sky
And exhale green which
shows through the translucent dew
of grass.

Unnecessary use of description.
Limit it, Lidiah. Limit it.

My fingers itch with the ferocity of
A vengeful army.
They are waiting to trample pages with
The lead of my pencil, the bayonet
of a Revolutionary-War-era rifle.

The word limit sounds like tragedy.
A single word that can somehow act as
a precursor,
To the death of passion.

Your words have put you in a box.

People always say
“Actions speak louder than words.”
In a way that is true.
But I also know it to be
a tremendous piece of fiction.

Lidiah,
Please watch your run-ons.

Why can our words and our actions
not be the same thing?
Isn’t the act of speaking,
the act of raising your voice,
the act of being heard,
isn’t that an action?

Lidiah,
how many times do I have to remind you?
Clarification throughout.

Why have we decided that our words
Mean nothing more than
stepping stones on the road to action?

When did we decide that our voices
which rise like clarion calls,
forever instilling our promises,
are to be left on silent?

Precious jewels set into rings.

Poison in a water tank.

Lidiah,
what you say is irrelevant
if your MLA bibliography isn’t in
alphabetical order.

Our words are our actions.
They mean the same.
Words are the distinctions of our beliefs
Illustrations of our personas
They are not mosquitos to be slapped away
and forgotten.

Lidiah,
paragraph five is too long.
Stop rambling.
Be concise.

Please tell me,
what is the point of being concise?

Lidiah,
stop rambling.

Why do we let justification
equate to useless rambling?

Lidiah,
you have to detach yourself from the narrative.

Feelings mean more
than a couple of sentences.

More than a good or a bad.

A mad or a sad.

Comma-splice

What about ferocity?

Never end with a preposition.

What about passion?

Replace this with a conjunctive adverb.

What about the discernable strife
that follows even indifference?

What about that?

Lidiah,
what is the point of
Poignancy?

What are we without it?
What does the human soul matter
if we have forsaken the parts of ourselves that
remind us of what a soul is for?

Lidiah,
you will never be heard
if you do not learn to follow the rules.

It feels like I have been walking down this road
with you
Forever.

We are standing within grasp of one another.
But neither of us will reach out our hand.                                                          

Because we are terrified
of being hurt
of being happy
and perhaps even just
of being heard.

So, we walk on.
Our arms brushing every few steps,
but we will never reach out.

This line we tow…
is more delicate than we could ever know.