dreams – Every Breath Poetic

Residue

7 AM – a sublime sadness stirs you from your slumber, and in those fleeting, fogged out, moments, you’re barely able to maintain your grip on the ghost of a dream now wanting.
it’s the last dream on your mind.
the one dream that always stays on your mind. […]

Residue

this dream is your gold standard, your grasp at a perfect ideal, at a model worthy of transcribing. it’s your very definition of bliss…

until you wake, and that dream begins to turn. it wraps around you and it rots. it seeps into you, into your blood, and it poisons your heart.

the specifics of the dream fade, and emotions flood in to make up for the loss, leaving a residue to stain your day with the unshakable weight of naught.

you forget that the dream happened, and as the day trudges on, everything seen and felt remains tinted by its grayed out lens.

the luster that comes from life spent wisely is lost – it might as well be forgotten. only a dull existence remains, one sparked into creation by a dream that can no longer be recalled.

work seems meaningless, visits with family and friends, pointless. because within the wells of your dreaming, upon the moment of your waking, a bad seed was planted.

your entire day plays out like this, and even though you cannot track the coordinates of the cause, you’re still able to take solace in some familiarity, however brutal it may be.
you've been down this road before.
and you will be down it again.
because you dare to dream the fool’s dream –
the one of obtaining perfections only found
in dreams that sour upon waking.

M. L. Michael
9/7/13

About…

wake up to this

Wake up to the sight of a dozen crows perched on the horizon
and the dream of Dorothy becoming a fickle thing,
and her ruby toed goodbye being a sour sort of thing,
because now a swollen bruise hangs in the sky, and the crows wont stop cawing.

Wake up to find there’s no place like a home that’s haunted.
-there’s no reason to fear the dark- but reason enough to save yourself;
its the do or die test– the water is coming, its a sink or swim race;
now try and run with your dreamers legs and your clown shoes. […]

Wake up to the sight of a dozen crows perched on the horizon
and the dream of Dorothy becoming a fickle thing,
and her ruby toed goodbye being a sour sort of thing,
because now a swollen bruise hangs in the sky, and the crows wont stop cawing.

Wake up to find there’s no place like a home that's haunted.
-there's no reason to fear the dark- but reason enough to save yourself;
its the do or die test– the water is coming, its a sink or swim race;
now try and run with your dreamers legs and your clown shoes.

Wake up to the racket of a dozen crows ready to roost,
(there’s a murder causing hell over your roof, 
ready to rain away any chance of a parade
if you don’t claim your higher ground.)

Wake up to the panic of there’s no time left on the clock.
the storm is here, and the flock has found their cuckoo nest.
ready or not, you better fly and finally soar like the rest,
so take heart, steel your mind, and summon old courage
and forget the crutches – they’re only handicaps on a brick road.

Wake up to the alarm of a dozen years dreaming,
so encumbered by your heavy coat of slumber -
you fight familiar demons masquerading as nightmares,
discouraging you from leaving a house now flooding,
making mute this place you called home
where now only the crows sit and the water waits.

Wake up to find Dorothy had bailed from this merry-go-round
left a note saying you weren’t ready this go around –
that the storm is here and you’re still struggling with the baggage.
still sluggish from a longish slumber,
yet to comprehend the emergency of sobriety.

Wake up to the sound of sirens singing the murder song
and you cursing out your best swan song -
“the ship is sinking – abandon all ye sleeping, make out for land!
No time for weeping, break past the line of constant return.
This time, wake up for real!"

M. L. Michael
04/30/12

About…

By April of 2012 I had enough with the cycle of taking more and more pain medicine until it eventually unraveled into a destructive downwards spiral. As soon as I noticed this happening I told my pain management doctor and we decided I should go to a 30 day rehab clinic right away.

This poem was written in the middle of that night from a dream that woke me up. In a mere six hours or so after this was written I was being driven by my parents to the clinic.

i can dream a poison that lasts for hours

I can dream poison.
I can dream a poison that lasts for hours.

My dream is a life that’s so
wonderfully unique to my own,
This dream where I can travel in out-of-body,
so I can’t experience any thing (any pain)
but I can understand everything that’s going on.[…]

I can dream poison.
I can dream a poison that lasts for hours.

My dream is a life that’s so
wonderfully unique to my own,
This dream where I can travel in out-of-body,
so I can’t experience any thing (any pain)
but I can understand everything that’s going on.

I dream myself in a crowd of merry goers,
and there’s this wonderfully unique girl,
who stands out like a beacon amongst her peers.
She’s this light brunette sunrise surprise, 
who can smile like a sculpture,
and laugh as sweet as a songbird. 

When I talk to her
I don’t stutter.
I say everything as eloquent
as if I had nights to dwell on their meaning.
I do everything in my power
to see her smile 
     to hear her laugh 
           to watch her breathe.
There in my dream I am the smoothest
that I’ve never been in my life.

A concert comes on, or 
some other great gala or another,
and we join the crowd and dance
we fall into each other’s rhythm.
we sing in sync with each other’s song.
there, together in a crowd, we dance, dance, dance,
there, one in a crowd, we smile, laugh, breathe.

That’s the moment I wake up,
the moment the poison takes effect.

11-19-06
M. L. Michael