The Boulevard

This is the boulevard of half-formed fantasies. 

Each house is as broken as the last, and each 

dream hung over my head, but would never form. 

Here is where they will stay. 

My first house died when I was fourteen, 

Killed by small phrases like ‘be realistic’ 

and all I could do was watch it rot. 

Here is where they will crumble. 

I stand at a new plot of land. It is raw,

untainted by myself and I will stay on 

the boulevard of half-formed fantasies. 

Here is where I’ll stay.