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  • Writer's pictureJafei Pollitt

Day #37: Dreams

I finally have time for another long poem! This form is called the Glose and it’s basically using another poem as inspiration for your poem. You take the lines of the poem you’ve chosen to base yours off of and sprinkle it into the last line of each stanza you write. Because I actually don’t read poetry (I know it’s ironic; no need to beat that dead horse), I will be randomly picking one from google search!

Dreams, by Langston Hughes

“Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly.”

An Account of My Dreams

At seven my dreams tittered in and out With hauntings of skeletons and a woman in white Along a crescent moon. Once I was awake and dancing beside my bed Were Jiminy Cricket and Mickey Mouse. Night faded into day and still, I woke from my state of consciousness. I once dreamed into this tangible life where I could walk And sing and fly, or wear bubblegum and eat ice cream from mountains. Hold fast to dreams.

At fourteen, I dreamed of boys holding my hand and kissing me In some far away, perfect crevasse between two peaks. Although, sometimes, they would run just out of reach. When I was sixteen I retreated to bed when I felt a numbing pressure build-up between my eyes caused by a lack of definition for the word “misery.” When escape is cocooned in your head it tangles Your existence between two halves. And I will be forever lost and searching, for if [my] dreams die.

At eighteen, my dreams exploded into a Symphony of glorious tales with vivacious colors. Animals roamed larger than redwoods with purple, crystal tails. When I jumped, I was submerged into air and swam amongst birds. At nineteen, they seemed to dwell on the past Longing swarmed my ankles and weighted me Down to realize I was lost inside the want for old love. The introduction of greys and pale whites slowly Crept inside when I was twenty. Life is a broken-winged bird.

Today I woke from a dream of trying to wake. A cycle so boring it should have put me to sleep twice over in my dream. At twenty-one, I’ve had trouble seeing in my delusions. My eyes will roll to the back of my head Refusing to resurface. Or a black ribbon will Magnetize to my eyelids. Perhaps It’s the little will I have left to refuse this reality Of bleak dreams. Ones where I am stagnant, ones That cannot fly.

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