Why am I,
And I know I am not the only one,
plagued by bad dreams?
Violently twisted versions of realty
That force us to witness our own perceived interpretation
Of helplessness, utter exposure, and abuse.
Part of me agrees I could think about other things,
These fantasies have no bearings on me,
Besides lost sleep and a heartbeat that trips over itself and sends me into convulsions and crying.
Well, more and more often
I’m wondering what it says of my psyche
To dream of scenarios in which I’m beating a man with my bare fists, bloody, to death
And bending his back backwards over a dumpster
Until he’s no longer taunting me about how I’m not safe no matter where I go.
That was just a part of the massacre that played out in my head between two hate groups,
Whose issues I’m not familiar with,
All I know is it was US versus THEM.
And there was fucking blood everywhere
And even though this time around I could connect the punches
And I finally wasn’t helpless
I was angered and so fucking violent.
Maybe that dream confirmed something for me
I might rather be beat down
Than physically fight back.
Maybe I’m a pacifist at heart.
And in life I have causes yes,
But in this dream I can’t quite speak to them.
When I think back to the maniacal laughter of the bloodied man about to die in my fists
I am reminded,
We cannot just sit idly by and declare ourselves pacifists.