Really, Really Bad Poetry

You should experience these dreams I have late at night. You should peer into my mind just once and see where I journey in an unconscious state. From just after midnight, up until the wee hours just before dawn, it makes no difference. My head continues to spin. I sometimes wonder if I've slept one full night in my entire life without having some kind of dream. Sometimes a nightmare. Sometimes a flashback. Sometimes just too bizarre to decipher. It's like a photo album is being flipped infront of me. A home movie is being spun before my eyes. My brain continues to pump out images, voices and video. Never before though has it produced writing...until the other night.

I'm sitting at home in my office. A small torn sheet of paper lies before me with a pen in my hand. The desk beneath my hand seems to float downward and disappears into a sea of white fog. It's like I'm writing in thin air, but I have this paper. I have this pen. I have these words pouring out of me. I write them down rapidly, like a writer does when a feeling hits them and they don't want to lose that train of thought. As I scratch the words out, I am saying them. I am repeating them outloud to myself, but yet in a whisper. Over and over again I recite the words as if I am preparing to give a speech. What I have to say seems so important that I need to write it down. I need to make a note of it because I must get this message out there. My voice must be heard. My message must be read. It echoes...

I dance around my words.
I tiptoe between the lines.
I read what I write.
Again. And Again.
And once more to get it just right...for you.

I puff my chest out proud.
Like the letter P.
Then I feel silly.
And slide down the letter V.

Your insecurities are shinning thru...

The poem does not complete. After writing in a frenzy, I suddenly get a case of writer's block. I wakeup from a dead sleep. I sit up in bed totally confused. It's bizarre. It makes no sense. It's like really, really bad poetry. Initially I think "that poem was horrible!" I am my own worst critic, but really, that was just plain bad. I expect better out of me, even in my sleep. It jumps around. It seems kind of serious at first, then it gets silly and then it gets strange. Of course that is the beauty of a dream. They often make very little sense to you at first, until you dig into the possible hidden meaning beneath it all. I get out of bed, grab a sheet of paper and jot down the "poem" I was writing in my dream. I know if I don't do that immediately, I will surely forget the exact wording. It seemed like it was very important to me in the dream and because it woke me so abruptly, then perhaps it does have some significant meaning. I feel frustrated that I didn't complete the poem, even though it was poorly written. Despite the calming atmosphere that surrounded me in the dream, I felt frantic as I wrote. I even felt urgency writing once I awoke. Now a few days later, I feel as if I want to piece the dream and the poem together - make sense of it. I may have to call on a poet and a psychologist to help me decipher this one. Although, I've given this some thought and this is what I feel the dream and the poem may be trying to say to me...

It's that little boy trapped inside of me. The little boy who stands on his tiptoes to peer out the window. To peer thru the world from behind my eyes. He's suppressed by childish fears. He sometimes suppresses them even when he writes. He writes in complete solitude. Nothing but a pen, a paper and his heart. He begins to let it out. Suddenly, he stops short and then makes light of it. He cracks a joke. He turns it into a silly game. He slips on the mask so he doesn't have to feel ashamed for what's pouring out of him. He shows a glimpse of himself from the inside out. Then quickly he pulls the curtain tightly shut. He hesitates. He doesn't put closure on things that ail him. He lets it fester like a dirty wound. He needs to own it. But he feels people will laugh at him. Make fun of him. Make light of it. He becomes embarrassed. He feels sorry for ever bringing it to people's attention. He tries to explain himself. He tries to reason his emotions. He tries to convince others he is strong. He tries to convince himself too. He secretly is seeking their reassurance. That it's ok not to be strong sometimes. They reassure him. They comfort him. However, the feeling doesn't last. He wonders if they are being truthful or just being kind. He questions the sincerity. He hates to question their heart. He hates anyone to question his.