Perchance to dream

It finally dawned on me,
unbidden, unsought
sudden revelation as if the first flowers before Spring.

It is not water, per se,
that makes me a Pisces;
I am no swimmer
and such plain interpretation is not stitched into my soul,
it is sleep and dreams.

For I am most in my element
when half-asleep and daydreaming
where words of wonder cascade into my mind
and play out scripts many will never see,
save for the scribblings I preserve with pen;
a good habit must start sometime.

And I am most inhuman
most un-me
most irritable and callous and disconnected
when I fool myself into substandard sleep,
justifying the lack of slumber
with being able to get by;
but simply being is not being and caring.

It is also at midnight
that not only is my mind afire with ideas,
but my lust is at its rampant zenith;
my ardour is aroused;
words and wanks as tools for exhaustion
out of insomnia's damnable grip.

Given half a chance
I can easily sleep past midday,
and relish the feel of bedsheets before getting up;
that time of bleary sensations
and semi-rapture of being alive yet again.

For I swim in dreams
in hopes,
and why this horrid horrid world
leaves me so tired.

And yet,
I tell myself,
with enough rest and dreaming rebirth
I'll finally be able to write
and affect the world...

I can but dream.