A Masterpiece Written in Dreams
My fingers are already aching,
their muscles weary, spent, and tired.
Sweat soaks through my singlet,
my eyes grow heavy, begging for sleep,
to pay back seventy-two hours denied.
Yet each of my writes lies in his bin,
the sponsor never seems to tire
of casting them there with careless joy.
Perhaps that brings him most delight—
a cross my restless heart must bear.
Would it not be better to run the race
on a track, not behind a screen?
I could have run forty-two miles
in less than two hours, breaking the world record,
instead of these seventy-two with no glory.
There’s even a method to this madness:
twenty-seven contests in a row,
each confined to less than forty-three lines,
echoing marathons run on the track.
But my ink has dried, my paper stays blank.
I restrain my heartache deep within,
lest it spill across my face,
where anger and discouragement dwell,
hidden beneath facial creams and wry smiles,
till after work removed their weary veils.
Each night, each burdened weekday,
and each night, each joyless weekend,
I do my laundry, I eat my meals,
over the silence of this same paper,
still waiting for its first word.
So tonight, I beg you, Sleep:
take away this sleeplessness.
For poems are better written in dreams.
Leave me there till I craft a masterpiece—
one no sponsor can ever deny its glory.
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