There was a boy who grew up with the stars for cousins,
cumulus nimbi for grandparents,
back pocket journals for fathers, their pages wilted like roses,
The boy wrote with melted moonlight,
gathered every morning in the form of morning dew,
outside on the street littered with pot holes there were lamp posts that grew like arthritic fingers from the ground up,
it was these lamp posts where synthetic sunlight dripped from the sky downwards,
collecting in shallow puddles,
it was this light that bled through the blinds every night, prodded tired eyes open and kept the boy company while he wrote,
swirling the melted moonlight onto the page,
the synthetic sunlight dripping like thick honey onto the page,
merging with the silver strands of moonlight,
the boy who wrote and thought by night, and dreamt by day,
the boy who soon tired of fake smiles,
who could not sew a fake plastic smile in place with stitches neat like cursive,
instead he learned to wear a tired smirk that clung to his face loosely,
He wore that smirk like a flannel,
He learned to talk to oak trees, their roots dense with wisdom,
he learned to fall in love with the sway of dandelions, not the stiffness of roses,
The boy who spent his recess minutes conversing with the wind,
he wrote down everything she told him,
the boy grew up like the crooked lamp posts,
but, he learned and reread what the constellations had told him,
he learned to breath life into pages like the gentle blow that feeds the flame,
he learned to cultivate dreams like grey dandelions,
letting them flow freely in the moonlit air,
he learned to play and jump in puddles of star light,
he fell in love with apricity and watered every idea,
the boys thoughts used to be roses, that died like wilted dreams down the shower drain,
that on his crooked block dreams fell into pockest half empty with asparations that they stay thre forgotten,
and he refused to let that happen,
and every idea was a delicate rose and he found himself outnumbered day after day,
they told him that his dreams were silly,
that those roses would wilt like his soul after a year,
that there would be nothing left but a brown stem and a dead rose,
and he refused to believe that,
he grew gardens in his notebooks,
burried his past mistakes under the roses,
and grew dandellions so that eh could have a wish for every drop of water on the earth,
he learned not to trust on the shooting stars or eyelashes,
but he knew that his garden of danadellions he kept hidden away in a journal that was wilted like roses,
he knew that in his garden, where dandellions were watered with moonlight and they blew in the wind,
his dreams could flourish.
amandla
germansingergirl
origamiaround
gummygunk
blakekathryn
areudirty