The dreams that stick with me often become poetry or stories. I mean, it's completely ready material!

Force
Caught you, pulled you back.
Frantic, you were
wild-eyed, cornered,
too big for your skin,

given to indiscretion,
taught to follow rumbles
made by those running
in the wrong direction.

Told you, reasoned you back.
Terrified, you were
watching fear, frustation,
love consumed and decayed,

huddled, hiding,
folded into yourself.
Better not to know
the right direction.

Met you, you looked back.
Disappointed, I was
sorry, you waste time running
your face told me:

flee balance,
chase the knot
in your stomach.
Emotions, you know.

Left you, gave you back.
Already gone, you are
lost to me, destined
to seek the darkness.

The Race

Dusty feet running, walking,
dragging down a dirt road
with no end. It makes me
think maybe the world
is flat and drops off
in a hole filled with water
a hundred feet deep, but
we are not surprised
to find it. We push
down to the bottom
with lungs that shouldn't
breathe but do and we
claw upward through
pounds of impossible
pressure. We break the
ceiling and grin and gasp
and redefine life
for the ones who
have merely lived it.