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last night
i had a nightmare.

i was writing a horrible poem.
and when i say horrible, i mean
truly, shamefully hideous.

all of the classic poetic devices
i overused—excessive alliteration,
senseless similes sprinkled liberally
like stars,
personification prancing across the page.

it was a carnival of untamed abstractness
a fiesta of wild words
enjambed
in odd
places.

i was working toward an “it was
all just a dream” ending, that weariest
of childhood clichés,
when i woke up.

i hadn’t even had time
to add a title.