The dreamcatcher, by Britta Benson

The following poem started off as a complete slash your wrist type of thing and I was literally gutted by the end of writing it. I looked at my words and thought, no, this is not what I wanted to write. How did it happen? How did I end up on a downhill spiral?

So I decided to take the poem for a walk, work on it, nudge it gently into a shape that felt like the poem I wanted to write. I’m a lot happier with the result. I like taking pieces of writing on a walk – and I literally mean a walk. Time to think and mull things over.

The dreamcatcher

The dreamcatcher doesn’t work

during these tedious, drawn out days

of your careful, most clinical deconstruction.

It takes time to wreck facades

with the skill of a surgeon,

brick by brick, cut by cut.

There’s resistance when you slice

even the emptiest shell,

let alone splice the seeds in your soul,

discard husks, skin your heart

and look at the bloody core.

The dreamcatcher doesn’t work

during these days without vision.

Keep you coat on,

pack your toothbrush,

leave a note to whom it may concern.

You might think,

you’ll sit in this dark forever,

writing your crushed hopes

into the dust of your dreams.

You won’t. Trust your steady hand

holding the scalpel, drawing the lines.

You’re getting ready for life beyond your wildest.

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