Beneath My Eyelids

Sleeping, I dream of beautiful words precisely placed to create perfectly formed sentences. Complete ideas come forth in already entirely whole poems, appearing as instantaneously as thought itself.

Beneath my eyelids, stanzas overflowing with ideas and emotions scroll before me, welling up from unknown depths. Just reading and acknowledging such imagination excites my inner self. My mind races to record every word. Oh the jubilation, how great it will be to share such treasure, such accomplishments. My soul rejoices, impatient to witness a written copy, hard and intact. Unwilling to wait, joy moves me to wake and write, tossing me about internally as the outside lays still.

Slowly stirring, turning, my conscious begins to come to. Sleep weighs down my muscles; grogginess keeps my eyelids from opening too fast. Once both open, light floods in along with a slight remembrance of sleep's imparted knowledge. Each ticking second, each passing minute brings the day's responsibilities and a forgetful of the previous night's dreams. When reality fully hits, I stand up, stretch, get ready for the business ahead, and hope that somewhere I can find time to pen the little bit that I can still recall.