'Rat' -A Poet Wrote This One, Not Me

Ouch, She Said, There's A Sharp Object In My Heart; For Goodness' Sake Don't Turn It

I had dreams like that, each night, laid
Out like next day’s attire or the
Vapor trail of a headache that
Does not quit, vague recognition
Of something or of so and so,
Of tea and doubt in the morn and
Hell to pay for the luxury
Of unconsciousness. I have been
Upended by these dreams, by flights
Of fancy that had no grace or
Pilot, only self-stumble to
Day from night and back again, tired
And tired of, where I pocketed
Stars by dark that had burned escape
Holes without so much as a blink
Before dawn. What aches is knowing
I might have put them to good use.
I might have blazed trails or loved with
That light, I might have learned how to
Shine all by myself instead of
Through mirrors, I might have spelled out
In kind of sunbeam letters I
Am Special, then trusted it. I
Got ready for bed one last time
And I thought I could patch what was
Missing with imagination.
But if I find the holes again,
Sparking cometless tails streaking
Into ether, I know I will
Have to give up sleep entirely.