stinging nettles

A poem I wrote.

A dream thrown so far by the stings of the nettles of words,

like bubbles that pop into your brain making you search for more things to say.

A platonic sleep,

but a sleep that has no features in its rivers and its plains.

I see this sleep whenever I dream but not with the mind shut off not to know,

for fate is the wanderer of time and fate is the Schadenfreude of your life.

Life is a siren making its maiden call heard and you just happen to bumble into its plans,

but I cannot keep up with its demands.

You are the captain of your soul, you are the master of your fate some great poet said,

did he ever stop to think that he might of been mislead?