Well the first dream was something about a one bedroom house my sister and I lived in with my sister. I've dreamed of the house before, and it was nothing significant. That dream turned into a slumber party.
Then I had a second dream. My step brother bombed a small part of our house and I saw him do it. Well, no one died and that part of the house got rebuilt. Then later I found out he was planning to do it again. I snuck out and tried to hide in the back yard. I saw him swinging his little grenade. I also saw my mom talking to him. I stepped out into the light by accident, he saw me and threw the grenade. I was burned, badly. I passed out from the shock and when I woke up it was morning and there were other young women in the yard. Their hands were bound and they were being watched by my step brother. He wasn't really him at that point. I was in the shade of a cloud, and when it moved in the wind I felt the heat of the sun on my burned skin. I cried out and the other girls begged my step brother to bring me into the shade of the trees.
That's all I remember of that dream.
I had a third dream that didn't make any sense at all, and I don't remember very much of it. Just that I got separated from my mom in the mall.
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The Mind
Mainly a record of my more interesting dreams that I was able to remember after waking up. (Apparently my uncontrollable confessions, as well. In the form of poetry. All to the same man.)
If the boy who draws
lets you look over his shoulder.
If the poet
smiles
and shows you her words.
If the girl who sings for the shower only,
hums a song
in front of you.
Know that you’re no longer a person
but the air
and dust
that fills their lungs.
When the world perishes,
and all things cease to exist,
you’ll remain inside an ink stain,
a paint brush,
a song.
— Alaska Gold
lets you look over his shoulder.
If the poet
smiles
and shows you her words.
If the girl who sings for the shower only,
hums a song
in front of you.
Know that you’re no longer a person
but the air
and dust
that fills their lungs.
When the world perishes,
and all things cease to exist,
you’ll remain inside an ink stain,
a paint brush,
a song.
— Alaska Gold