My Cup

The watercolor dreams I had

told me that if I drink of the

cup, I’d find a sense of euphoria.

And yet, in the swirling color of

a sleeping mind, I still was skeptical

of any elixir making me happy.

It didn’t seem right at all, it was

too easy to slough off the trappings

of anxiety and pent up frustrations,

jumbled and juggling on a unicycle

made of butter across the hot frying

pan of my brain.

There was no dream way that a dream

drink was going to cure me of my pains,

my insecurities, my fears, or unrequited

desires. The dream version of myself, awash

in intensity and vim, was a doubter and

pushed the drink away.

The hands so forcefully encouraging me

to sip of the cup were aggressive in response

to my denial of their offering. They were

incensed to a degree and seemed to float

above me to avenge this slight from on

high.

I wasn’t scared though. I seemed to grasp

onto the threads of reality and pull myself

up from the churning violence of my own mind.

I didn’t look back at the shifting scenes of my

dreams. I could feel the pull towards the

real world.

I woke up on my left side. Head buried so

hard into my pillow that my left ear hurt.

I turned and looked at the digital clock on

the dresser and the red numbers on the clock face,

1:00 AM. The evil 1:00 AM assaulting me with

some surprise, “Oh, you’re up”, it seemed to mock.

I turned to my right side and closed my eyes again.

I don’t seem to have such crazy dreams when I sleep

on my right side. It’s far less exciting.

As I returned to sleep, I remembered,

the phrase, “My cup run-eth over.”  

I drifted to calmer dreamy shores.