Noah Piet Poet Free verse

Spring Cleaning

Maybe I do dream,
In stretches of silence
and stains of light shaded by beauties
No formation of synapses can create;

Lengths I cannot see.

Maybe I do sleep,
Conditioned with open eyes
that found panic as what allows me to relax;

Forty winks granted by the world lost to me when I think.

But if it were true,
And I just experienced 
and lived it all differently than you,
Then the problem may be bigger than what insomnia and PTSD can do. 
I think.

Aphantasia steals of what I wish to see,
consequently days tend to lose the fantasy.

Visual snow gives me something,
But lord, what I would give to be able to dream.

I don't even want the rest, i just want a resting mind to see. 

Not images that make sense, just simply the ludicrous nature of anything.

So do I infer
That it's distortion i prefer
Or is it a lack thereof, an emptiness 
that has grown into something like
a busy Sunday with a force
of regretful relenting 
will to go
to this church;

Irrational islands of misfit toys 
That a makeshift coherence attempts the choice 
of grasping, to get ahold of with definitions to point.
Might it have been tainted, framed and ployed 
by what a subconscious refuses to fabricate?

Mourning doves christening our morning sun, callings that anoint my new days voice;

Welcoming a better chance to merge with a better choice.

Maybe there's this possibility of this trait
of detrimental insomnia growing into a shelter to hoist. Tending to annoy but guised as a form of therapy should I continue to suppress the more irritable form of testimony;

A sigh finding symmetry without a void.

Not in gross efforts of dismissal but using situations to profusely grow my idea of self;

Allowing disruptions absence create the poise.

Unwittingly sacrificing years that have yet to be,
Concocting the strangest imaginings;

A stabilizing lens debilitating the battery
made as another 'single use' thing, 
a fallible human boy.

Maybe I do dream 
but as a tool that grants burden on use,
Yet usefully.

Maybe I'm able to think and speak
as far as i'm able
at the cost of the hijinks
a breaking spirit
plays in mistakes 
And of what it misreads.

I believe I'm awake,
I know I am more often than not,
But maybe today
I write in a search of structure 
that may merge with identity.

And here again, 
if it's beliefs I'm speaking of
Then there's the tender fret of being wrong.

Maybe I'm asleep.

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