Fucked Up Dream

Crying is a game
I play with myself
When I can’t feel
I am only real in writing,
Fighting every sane thought I have
I am only real when I conceal
all the things that make me
fake.
I can’t take knowing
That I’m just a pile of
fucked up dreams.
When I am writing, it seems,
I control the world
of my poem and my pen
and the rhythm I place
in the space that surrounds
my soul.
I am whole on paper
I control the paper
as I lose myself.
My head is pounding
as I am sounding out
the doubt I have
of reality.
My eyes won’t focus
The skies are closing
I’m tripping over myself
Exposing my lack of depth.
I find it in drugs and
in the rhythm of our breath
Letting you complete me.
But I’m still searching for insanity
to make me feel
surreal.