I keep reassuring myself. That I’m only having a nightmare.
That Donald Trump isn’t real. That soon I’ll wake. And breathe a sigh of
relief. Having returned to the sane world. Where the likes of Trump. Are put
away. In a booby hatch. This man is nuts. Crazy. Loony. Pardon me. For being so
unkind. So judgmental. Don’t blame me. I don’t have control over my nightmares.
Scares the willies out of me. Could be. That I’m the one in need of therapy. Trump
feels so dreadfully real. When it can’t be. I must take control.
Please. Please. Give me hope. An escape. From this recurring nightmare. --Jim Broede
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