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MY FACE BURIED IN AN OPEN NOTEBOOK
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SQUANDERED SERENDIPITY
I slept with my face buried in an open notebook; my pen held tight in hand. It did me no good as no great literature was able to rise from my dreams. My thoughts stayed within my own mind. The Unconscious world would not spit up any nuggets of gold. It left me laying tired and frustrated with my surroundings. My disenchantment with myself is increasing daily. I guess there won’t be any awards or accolades for me. I just blitzed out for the night and gained no ground. Dream world was futile. It granted me no inspiration. I shouldn’t have expected it. It’s too much to ask. I must have gone astray somewhere along the line. There must have been some sin committed to cause this grief. Nonetheless, it has occurred and I must deal with it. The problem has always been that I simply don’t know how.
an open notebook
fingers furiously grip
words written in sleep
