Sometimes ..

.. when I'm alone at night, half asleep, I become myself.
Inky thoughts run through my brain. and fill out pages
There is laughter, death, mirth, tears are found, profound
All is  oh so very much write with the world in half slumber
The pain, the fog, of this mortal chassis is swept away then
And, my mind can play, unfettered by flesh and anxiety
I am myself, with thoughts, ideals, fancies, and abilities
Then I waken, and feel the words slipping quickly away
As the storm sweeps in, with lightning pain and brain fog

-30-

Sometimes, you see, I remember this poem that I wrote, in my head, to my daughter, Morgan, as I was waking up. It was so beautiful, as in I think it could have reached her, and it told of love, and loss, and failure, and renewal ..  and ... and ... it was something about ink and dipping pens. That's all I remember of it, really.
It .. tries to fill me with longing, with sadness. I turn away those drinks, and stumble on through the fog, pretending that I am functional. I am not functional.
But, you have to do what gets you through the day. Never mind, Mr. Lennon, about what gets you through the night.
I miss my brain. I've heard such wonderful things about it, over the years, but, I haven't been there, seen it from more than a far distance, in most of a lifetime. Except, sometimes, when I am half awake, so that I can think, with less fetters.