What is this that I wake up crying
Trying to lie to myself that it was just a dream
When I can’t even remember the theme
Or even if I did dream, though it seems I did,
But I crawl out of bed ready to scrawl
On the walls but I fall to the floor without words,
Hearing birds chirping outside beside my window,
Which is only a show of other life happy,
And I wonder why I can’t be more snappy
And sing, too . . . If only the birds would bring
Inside my soul their song
But they throng outside all to themselves,
Or have they brought me a song already,
So I have what I’ve sought all my life
Never knowing it was blowing so near and dear?
But will I go through the day this way?
I know I may stay somber in this same location
With my same vocation,
But at least I find some relief in the belief
That I’m doing something good and productive,
Something even seductive to my artisan soul!
I may bite my pen for awhile in tears
But eventually I will write
In sight of the whole world . . .
If anyone cares to read, and maybe my words
Will then have planted some seed worth growing
In the hole of someone’s soul . . .
I may not be able to save myself
But I can behave as if I’m saving another,
Though all I may be doing is raving like a lunatic!
Note: This is the third (or fourth) of my stream-of-consciousness poem