Lucid dreamer, lucid dreamer,
What is it that you remember so fondly of?
Oh, blessed sleeper it is but a tragedy,
For memories are only tossed on to the wind,
Whisked away, to never be seen again
And words are sad goodbyes
The deep waves are washing over you,
You who can’t wake up!
So I’ll sit by you,
As we sink into the soft sand,
With its warm, glossy embrace
Safe and sound
And let deep eternity wash over us
Swept away by the swells and curves of the salty ocean
Someday, you’ll wake up
And we’ll laugh and smile together again
Carried away

Blackest night
I awaken breathless
No puddle of light
Only darkness
As the voices swirl around my feeble mind
“No more! No more!”
Screaming at the top of my lungs
He whispers back
They all whisper back
Whispers of an abhorrent kin
Writhe in mercurial rhythms
Claw at my frail skin
A liquid most sanguine pouring out from ancient scars
When will it all end?
Their faces, their faces!
The apparitions, the hallucinations
No eyes, no pity
I am transfixed and horrified
Cackling in my misery and despair
Mass hysteria catches in my throat
Words fail me
Never escape these four cushioned walls
I finally realize
I’m never going home

The black waters swarm around me,
This ship is doomed to ruin,
Its timbers crushed under the embrace of the
Unforgiving ocean.
For the last time,
Sailors wonder where their love is envied,
Love for the depths of unknown,
Unable to
Traverse black waters, they sink neck deep,
All look to the sky.
A final small mercy.
I drown watching this,
I wonder if I can swim to the moon?

I still hope
That even my tiny hands might shape something
Great
But I sit in the mire
Playing with mud
Deluded by such grandeur that I am
A worthy creator
Shake my fists at God
“I am better!”
“I can do just as good of a job as You!”
All the while sinking deeper in the filth
I surround myself with
Hysteric laughter
“I can be God, I can be God.”
But my tiny hands can never make
Never make something of worth
Lasting through the ages
Laughter fades as I bow my head
Murmuring,
“I am God…”
Sink lower into the mire
Neck deep
“I am God…”
A pile of sloppy clay in front of me
“I am God…”
But what can a *** tell of its Potter?
What can a painting say of its Painter?
Can they say that they outshine the Hands that shaped them?
Can they say they are the Hands?
Nay, they only reflect the glory and the beauty of the Creator.
So help me, O God.
Because my pride is dragging me down
I am but a beautiful ***
Molded by an even more beautiful Creator
Still being molded
My tiny hands can do nothing
On their own
But even tiny hands can do great things
With big, strong hands to guide them.

When did the sky become so big?
                                               And I so small?