Noise abounds nowhere
louder than inside my head.
Iced magma still burns.

Every night I go to sleep, I have what I consider to be the strangest dreams. Maybe they are regular dreams and because I am constantly trying to find meaning in them, I assume they are out-of-the-ordinary. Either way, I have them every night.

By the time I wake up, I am more exhausted than when I lay my tired little head down. I am constantly herding my kids away from danger, rearranging a house that is mine and yet not, fighting with the parents of my youth, chasing a body of weight engulfing my thin dream body, learning of a pregnancy that can no longer be, or drowning in a vacuum of words unspoken.

I know writing a well-hidden, word press journal-style blog will not cure cancer, erase memories immune to cleaning fluids or create world peace.

I also know when I am not writing these personal vignettes in this way or with a bit of poet license, my dreams are exponentially more debilitating.