Sandman And The Joker

I walk the frayed edges of my own REM, observing you loving me, but that's not the real me, stop haunting my dreams. Can you not see I'm working so vehemently hard at this painting?
Grit litters this landscape with open eyes and a willing heart.
That soft woman that you embrace in her slumber is hard at work in the field, you are only loving the ghost of who she once was. In her waking, the substance in her hands is worth a thousand deaths of herself.
Waves of emotions you snatch from her soul, but if you loved her, you would let her soul have dreamless nights.
Or maybe it's all a joke to you.