On New Writing and Night-Dreaming.

I started writing again.
I haven't written in a while.
Haven't, I don't know, felt led to.
Or wanted to.
Wanted to write about what I was feeling
or thinking
or believing
because I didn't know what I thought.

I guess I really still don't.
Except that I can't sleep anymore,
because my mind runs rampant,
unless I am in that state of utter exhaustion
where you just want to say
"I love you bed, isn't this the best bed?
Oh, bed," And it envelops you,
recieves you,
floating and suspended
and takes you immediately away
to a safe nest of
soft dreams you won't
remember in the morning.
And those are the best.
It's the ones you have--
still considered day dreams--
before you actual conk out,
that are trecherous and keep
you up all night.
The wheels turning
on that slippery slope of a road,
from worse to bad to good
to horrendous to just jolly
turn-outs of those circumstances
awaiting some kind of conclusion.
You know.
Don't you? Maybe?
Or perhaps it's just me,
the past two nights.
Creating my future realities
behind my eyelids.