I don't chase sleep
Sleep doesn't chase me,
Doesn't even half-two;
Sleep has/is/will have
Non-Existed since before
My body joined the Clock-
Work Greyness that is
(Time)
Clicking away to E
Turn It E, And E; It:
Returning back to...
Mysteries are born, die,
Re-emerge, when our
Senses draw in, rescued
From the Wake of the
Ship that Sleep is

(Some Pronoun)
Has to Pretend to Sleep
The conscious Abstract
Of being slightly more
Vulnerable than when
We were unremembered
Babies, crawlers, toddling the
Dimly-Perceived Tightrope
When we first begin to remember
Night Horse-Mares
Tromping and galloping
Leaving woven dreamprints
To keep our Id from forgetting
To tell us to breathe, water, and feed
Whatever the Ego and Superego
Allow/Disallow

Time is there, in sleep, but
Not of the clockwork count-
Down that is carnal fleshly
Life resetting in the same way the
Terminator says
"I won't be back, I won't leave,
I am always here," like
Past grudgingly releasing
Its soft, sharp claws, Fading,
Fading twilight into the ever-
Wide arms of darkness

Bad dreams, good dreams,
Balancing our warring survivalist
Self with the calm wakefulness
When all three the fulcrum
Of our mind arriving Ten
Minutes before the Two Others

Sleep gives way from the
Inert Vulnerable
To the Alert Unvulnerable;
Sleep is to Consciousness
As Death is to Life

I hear the clanking of the gears and ropes
As the curtain starts its slow descent.
I’m rushing to get all my speeches in-
I thought the final scene would go on longer.

But I somehow forgot my lines, the prompter was asleep,
And I tripped across the brace cleats on my entrance
The apron edge is way too close.  I feel lightheaded.
I can see my understudy waiting in the wings.

I thought that I could play my role with some elan
For the entire duration of the local run
But seven shows with matinees to total nine
Have strained my voice and dulled my ears

So I can’t hit the high notes any more.
I know the lyrics and the tunes-
I play them in my sleep instead of waking up
But nonetheless I miss my cues and every note is flat.

The audience is unaware.  They haven’t read the book.
They cannot know the words left out, the blocking gone awry,
My struggle as I patch it up and try to hide
Behind my past reviews - when everything I did was right.

Tassels shimmy on the bottom of the velvet drape
As it slips down behind  me - out in front when I should be in back.
If only I could juggle - no one would suspect
That this will be my final curtain call and I have got it wrong.

She awkward steps back kitchen-side
This pan-lapsed food-fond alchemist
To where her latent joys reside
In flavour-labours sanctified
    Through boils, in bakes, on roasting
Her last cooked dinner, holiday
Before her dear one took their leave
Too painful kitchen-time replay
So, pots and mixers stored away
    Lost joy of home-heart toasting

Now humming with slight body quake
Full fear of fast descent in tears
Yet realising the heady ache
Was no impending weep-long lake
    But simple mess frustration
In truth the galley, clean enough
But who put all her tools away?
No soldier knife line, shining tough
No pin for shortcrust, brush for puff
    No decorating station

Crisp tuts for every tool misplaced
With tiny sighing shoulder arch
Utensils that could not be traced
Like grieving that could not be faced
    Rough substitute located
While losing whisk, sieve, spoon, and knife
With larger pieces from her past
In working through small kitchen strife
She found her hiding zest for life
    In crusty pastry braided
    Joy-cooking reinstated

i am not thankful for my trauma.

my trauma did not make me a stronger,
better person.
my trauma put me into a constant state of fear.
my trauma made it impossible for me to feel secure.
my trauma told me i was unlovable and made me think maybe i was a bad person.
my trauma doesn’t let me rest.
my trauma will never stop following me.

my trauma did not make me stronger.
it made me weak and terrified of vulnerability.

so stop telling me how strong i am for overcoming things i never should’ve had to.
i don’t want to be strong,
i want to be able to feel my emotions,
i want to be able to be vulnerable, without fear.

i want to be unapologetically me again.
i miss what’s dead in me