Lucid

Rolling restlessly over and against

the comfort and recluse of my bed,

I am tormented and ridiculed

into embracing moments; all fictitious,

yet drawn from my memory cores,

twisting and teasing me

before I wake up, startled;

before I try to make sense of it all;

before I decide to fall back to sleep;

before I begin to crave those feelings again.

Maybe I am foolish enough to fall

to the kindness of familiar faces

that weave in and out of my dreams;

when dreams reflect nothing more

than the spectrum of my inadequacies —

those countless, diffused, dissonant discourses

all too eager to chide and ostracise

my most fragile self;

away from prying eyes,

away from wildfire gossips,

away from reassuring embraces,

away from it all.