In a dream I wrote a sonnet
then found everything was wrong
rhyme scheme was obscenely off,
pentameter too long

In vain I tried to rectify
first one line, then the next
no sooner had I mended one
the last would change its text

’tis metaphor – I have no doubt
some days – can’t fix a thing
perhaps I need to leave them be;
give fixing me a fling.

CONTROL is at the heart, I know
my therapist is good
but learning not to care is hard
to stop and say “I can” not “should”

when hobbies, passions, haunt my sleep
it’s time to look at why
some things beyond my grasp to cure
go back and start with “I”

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