I used to hold dreams like

Dandelion fluff in front of

My parted lips: blow, blow,

Spread the specks of white

Fuzz out into the land and

Wish with a wish so big that 

It made the wind taste

Like freedom and the world

Explode with oranges and pinks

And deep purples.

​

"I want to be an artist!"

I'd say, 

"I want to be a weatherman!"

I'd say, 

"I want to be president!"

I'd say. 

I'd blow that little dandelion

Dust, for it was never really mine

For the keeping, or dreams

For the sake of dreaming.

​

I am older now and the years 

Have compounded on my

Brow. I am heavy with the hauling

Of such dreams and weary

With the hushing of it.

I hold them tightly in my 

Hands with 

Secret gloves and iron

Gaze to all who ask.

​

"I want to have a steady income,"

I say.

"I want to have a decent apartment,"

I say.

"I want to find someone I sort of like,

And settle down.”

It is only in my darkest velvet
Hours of staring at the ceiling
Do I look and look and trace upon
The shadows there like they’re
Private constellations:
I want to be a writer.
But don’t tell them.
I want to tell stories.
But don’t tell them.
I want to dream again.
And for people not to think me
Full of nothing but dandelion fluff
And far-away things.
I want to dream again.