Dream a'lil Dream (but Don't Scream)

 

I could tell you of my dreams:

Huddling, hidden behind the upturned metal picnic table, dodging the blowing winds waiting to be swept into the cyclone – dropped in Kansas; no oz for me.

 

There is no wizard, only me pulling my own levers and creating my own acts of delusion.

 

Kneeling before a three-headed c**k; swirling the softness between tongue and cheek mouth full in turn and waiting for a satisfaction that never comes.

 

It is only a dream; there is no satisfaction to be gained from dreaming only an endless questioning of the subconscious invading into the my restless nights.

 

Falling into a void; pervasive even now. I’ve been dreaming this same dream, this same said image for a decade and still I wait to find what is beyond the darkness.

 

I could tell you of my hopes:

Feathers on my soul, fears pulling words from my mouth until they are heard and read and reaped and ruined by the reality of what actually is?

 

But I am speaking of my hopes and reality has no place where desire lays dormant.

 

Perched behind my eyes and waiting beyond my voice they fester and grow into the dreams haunting my nights - turning me breathlessly aroused and frightened.

 

I could tell you of my heart:

How many beats it beats per second and each beat I feel within my chest within my life and those moments are counted hard and soft against the backdrop of my veins.

 

A constant and taken for granted musical to this living.

 

The inner working of feeling, staggering that beat and leaving nothing but doubt the mechanics will keep it flowing point to point.

 

If I deny it, it will deny me and with no heart I can never be broken down weeping from nothing made to something.

 

I could tell you of myself;

my dreams hopes and heart. I could, if I wanted to break myself apart for you to read as easily as a group of rambling lines plunked together and called this poem.

 

I could trick you into believing that these lines are any deeper than the paper they are printed on; ideas rooted deeply in my mind and joy and sorrow buried deep in my self. But it is all, simply, not true. These words run more shallow than the paper they’ve been printed on. Scratching only at the surface and choking with images; try to find me and you will only find the other side of this thought.