My world was filled with swing sets once

and monkey bars that gave me blisters.

My world was filled with hopes of making it big time once,

writing emotions into novels.

 

To create a paper and ink world: perfect and perfectly flawed,

that was heaven

in a world that breaks rules like cheap gel pens,

boasts violence without reason,

makes judgments like they’re true.

The worlds of novellas and screenplays,

the wonder of make-believe lives that scream to us,

to reform ourselves,

to be better,

to think twice.

 

When my hair pulled itself into my mother’s delicate French braids and bouncy pigtails,

and plastic colored chrysanthemums pinned neatly to my spring and summer dresses.

When the big piano in the guest room meant pretty sounds rather than cold, gray scales,

and learning wasn’t a burden.

When having shoelaces on your sneakers got you more friends at recess,

and forgetting to brush your teeth gave you a conscience.

When vegetables had no benefit,

and being outside wasn’t a chore.

When I had all the time in the world,

and I spent it writing nonsensical fantasies on wide ruled lines.

 

But dreams that die never really do.

They change and mature and age

just as we do.

On summer nights when the neighbors are snoring through their tinted windows,

I lie awake.

Tip-taps of those overgrown branches on dewy glass

become the rhythmic clicking of a keyboard,

typing out the lives that never were.