To write or not to write, that’s the question-

Whether tis easier to write

And momentarily live in a world I manifest in my mind,

Or to not put pen to paper

And, by sleeping, create new worlds?

To draft, to scribe imaginary past-

No more- and by drafting I face

The recollection of fanciful worlds

That each character-

Remain the same as before.

To rest, to not write-

To rest, to harvest ideas.

Ay, there’s the problem,

For in rest, how many ideas will evolve

When my subconscious imprisons my thoughts?

Tis the issue,

That makes tribulations of falling into sleep.

For who would rather dream of seemingly better times,

To create them in the mind,

The endless summers, the curving of a gravel path,

The trip inside a criminal’s mind, the consumption of hatred,

The endeavor of a runaway,

And the scorns

Of a thousand and one men,

All fade away as the sun rises,

The thoughts escaping like doves.

Who would compose a symphony of letters,

To write such fables out of ones dreams,

But then to realize they are recording who they wish to be,

Rather than becoming the myth,

Discovering their world is merely

A fabrication of what they conceive,

Drifting farther into thought, a frenzy,

Who wouldn’t long for ventilation?

Thus the chance of altering thoughts keeps me roused,

And thus the ecstasy of what develops subsequently

To the spilling of thoughts onto a page,

Holds me from the suspension of consciousness, a break

With little sleep and a manifold of notions

And lose the memories in the morning light

In favor of the sleepless night in previous.