Poetry, alone, is my synthesis
I miss not feeling restlessness
All my words are worthless
Experience consumes me
Followed by a comma
Where death’s mystery laughs
While someone cries on my shoulder.
My thoughts are never sober
Inflated by an ego
Breaking into the mind
Only to get a fine.
I feel blind.
No essence survives here
Nothing makes sense
Not even sense itself.
Because I’m disconnected
My eyes are skeptics.
My mind is biased.
Help me, I’m tired…
I just want to sleep,
But I’m confined to eternal insomnia.
Until my useless joy saves me again.
I wonder who gave me this pen.
I’ll pretend I made it up.
That I had some super luck
And that everything surrounding me
Is just an anomaly
Just like me.
But isn’t that funny?
Of course, because you reflect your own reality
Perceptions perceptions.
Clever misdirections.
Only one absolute truth.
It doesn’t care if you have proof.
But shall I rest in restlessness?
Does it matter? I do feel blessed
But I feel too sick of it all…
That’s why I ask if it’s all my fault.
