Mar 2018
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.
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.
This is the original "The Things that Hold Up Dreams"
I am a pair of tennis shoes with brown bottoms
stained
from days spent
whispering through a raspberry patch
with laces strewn tightly
only to come loose
when haphazard steps inevitably pull the strings
free of confinement.
I am a chest of Toys,
brown and covered in a smooth,
bound material that has begun
to rip at each corner.
Inside I smell distinctly Old
and faintly of dust and plastic.
I am a teddy bear
that was Left out in the rain,
wet and unkempt
fur matted and smelling of molding stuffing.
I am an old pair of pajamas made of Satin,
Soft
robin’s egg blue
worn to the point of Fraying around every seam.
I am a blanket
Comforting,
with knotted pink edges
and a sewn downy Face.
I am a bunk bed,
the kind that isn’t only for sleeping.
a Home for adventures, a fort, a car, a spaceship…
The sprawling structures,
Bones
that Hold up dreams.
I am a pair of tennis shoes with brown bottoms
stained
from days spent
whispering through a raspberry patch
with laces strewn tightly
only to come loose
when haphazard steps inevitably pull the strings
free of confinement.
I am a chest of Toys,
brown and covered in a smooth,
bound material that has begun
to rip at each corner.
Inside I smell distinctly Old
and faintly of dust and plastic.
I am a teddy bear
that was Left out in the rain,
wet and unkempt
fur matted and smelling of molding stuffing.
I am an old pair of pajamas made of Satin,
Soft
robin’s egg blue
worn to the point of Fraying around every seam.
I am a blanket
Comforting,
with knotted pink edges
and a sewn downy Face.
I am a bunk bed,
the kind that isn’t only for sleeping.
a Home for adventures, a fort, a car, a spaceship…
The sprawling structures,
Bones
that Hold up dreams.
