Nightmares

Nightmares It is what it is, It’s where you want it to be, It lives on the inside where you might confide. It’s designed to break your heart and attack your emotions, Tinker and meddle and melt into notions, Motions, speed, memory and time, A clock ticking backwards in rewind. It’s designed with melancholy in mind, Fragmented shards of what’s inside. Dark, distorted, lost, annulled and void of return, Void of comprehension and skewed perceptions, Sprinkled with letters and memos that litter trails of deception. It’s completely unnecessary but involuntary by design, A product of an attached shine, a luster or some sort of light, A bitter reminder of what goes thump in the night, Not quite scary, but terrifying but definition of plight. But it is what it is, after all; something I did and could not and will not withdraw, Something I regret more than error is the shadow that it leaves behind, A shadow of question, wonder and defeat, a shadow that follows and eats at my feet. So it is what causes these dreams, these nightmares while I sleep, It’s the evil that transpires, the guilt and pleasure that wear the same attire. It’s the darkness inside and the reality it creates, A theory, a question, a hope a desire, A spite, an anger or fuel for the fire. A nightmare or dream…? A cytoplasm or cream? A definition or demonstration, Vaguely hinting and predetermination. A story or moral outlined in stone, Carved with a hatchet and dissolved by the wet of the storm.

Anthony K. Rosales

It is what it is, but more than it seems, A jaw dropping epiphany with eyes wide shut and bursting at the seams. Apathy or catastrophe or something along those lines, Something that ascends the plateau or crawls up the spine, Invades the nervous system and corrodes with time. Whatever it is, or was or will be, It’s the reason why my eyes are open while I sleep, What causes me to throw up what I eat. A dictionary, or Pictionary or depiction of sound, A wavelength of details you’ve forgotten for awhile. It is a rant or raven, a dark dusty haven, A secluded space or taste of pure hate. It is what it is, It rewinds, redefines, reimagines the pain inside, Refines, revokes, remotely controls remorse. Redoes and regrets, Removes and repents, It is what it is, even now and way back then. Eyes wide open or eyes wide shut, It is nothing much, but a surreal sugar rush. Everything that means a damn to you, or at least once. Now or before, it settles the scores, It is a nightmare; And nothing more.

Anthony K. Rosales