Okay, so, here's a poem that I wrote about this dream, but I'll give you a little context first:
I once had a dream that I was in Nazi Germany, running from German soldiers who were trying to kill me (I'm Jewish). So, I was running around with my 'mother' (she was supposed to be my mother, but I had never seen her in my life and my 'baby sister' (also someone I knew in my dream, but didn't know in real life.). We were in this hotel that was notoriously known for housing jews. Suddenly, these German soldiers walk in and start shooting. The adrenaline was very real and I was terrified. Me, my mother and my little sister ran into a room with other people who were running and waited in silence. The Nazis broke the door down and started shooting, blasting a bullet right in the center of my baby sister's forehead. We started running. My mother, who didn't want to slow us down, threw the baby that was supposedly my sister onto the ground as we ran. I looked up at her and asked; "why didn't you cry?" she looked back down at me and said: "I've seen so much of it, I don't think I can cry about it anymore". We continued to run, not another word being shared.
In the morning, I told my mother about the dream, and she told me not to tell my grandmother (she is the daughter of a Holocaust survivor.)
So, without further ado, here's my poem about the unforgettable dream that I wasn't allowed to tell.
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Middle of the night, wake up, guns, bang, run, adrenaline.
Just don't tell your grandmother, she says, it'll break her heart.
This again, this again,
too many movies, he says, too many movies
too many watched and too many unwatched.
Twice in one life,
what a sad, sad story,
keep it, keep it,
make sure she doesn't find out.
She won't know, she'll forget,
she'll throw up and she'll fall down,
But don't let her know,
don't let her see.
December 22nd,
they'll tell me, those neighbours,
they'll tell me,
where is it?
Something witty, I'll say, only I know the words
but inside, my heart is in sorrow and the iguana yells.
Just for me, is it saved or unplanned?
Don't care, don't care,
A string of wool cries,
for every child with an unsaid worry.
A word, a sentence, an action,
the doormat stands helpless,
unable to speak.
The last step,
tumble, tumble, crash.
The way I feel, how about it?
My nose, my skin, my heart,
I'm okay, I’m okay.
The missing thing had been found.
Two people, three people, two people, exclude him.
The man with the trumpet doesn't count;
he already knows.
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