Dream Number Eleventy-seven

I had a dream
My pens and various notebooks,
Lying randomly on the unused
Side of my bed, and my stacks
Scattered around the floor in my bedroom,
Had gotten together
And attacked me in my sleep.

The notebooks agreed
To hold me down.
The pens took turns
Writing in varied fonts and colors
Across my forehead, face, shoulders
And arms; any place not covered
By sheets and blankets.

They wrote implied,
And not so implied,
References to my abandoning
The commitment I had made
To write everyday.

Like a lover scorned
And neglected,
They had had it.
Now I would pay.
The permanent marker
Made sure the world would know
How untrustworthy I truly am
By tracing over
The most descriptive adjectives.

They all wrote things like
Hypocrite,
Traitor,
Neglecter,
Liar,
Bad Dog,
Even Misanthrope
And other terms I would have to look up
To get the message.

Was this just a bad dream
Or one of those fleeting,
Silent wakeup calls
We call premonitions,
That in hindsight
I should have, could have, seen coming
After it happens.

The way I see it,
I have three choices:
—keep a gun by the bed
—sleep with one eye open
—or change my ways.