I woke up with most of this poem still relatively intact. With a few tweaks here and there I’m presenting it as an example of what can happen when you go to sleep asking your dreams for some input to some vexing problem e.g. “Why do I keep working against myself?”.
There’s a war going on within.
A disdain for the male and distrust of the female
Leaves me lost in between.
Stuck to father figures
Like burs stuck to my socks
Walking the dry dense fields of my youth.
Annoying, scratchy, sometimes painful
Chaffing my soul restricting movement forward
Burs hard to let go of, the fathers hold fast.
Each with promise of heroism
But having only the capacity to be human.
Leaving me ever lost.
I know how to be a human self
It’s my soul self that I crave
Can I cross this field having learned something, anything?