It has no pattern, it's just unvetted thoughts on a page.
I almost titled it 'I Know', but the thing is, I don't. And right now, anything else would be a lie.
I'm drowning,
All my thoughts are a cacophony of voices
Dissonant, strange, cold -
And then they're gone, hollowed out
A shell of a brain, and maybe of a human.
When I woke up, there was the rain
It was quiet and distant, up against the windowpanes
So close, impossible to touch
Everything was still a dream, so
What is reality and what is myth,
And what bridges the two?
That sort of magic, it's what dreams are made of:
The endless impossibilities,
The confusion and mayhem,
The monsters under beds and the ones in plain sight.
I wonder, sometimes, if I'm becoming one of them,
If the lines between hopeless optimist and illusionist
Are so blurred that they're inseparable.
But maybe I'm not the hero.
As any daydreamer will tell you,
Heroes are happy -
They have princesses to keep them company and castles against the wind.
If I'm a good person,
Maybe I wouldn't wake up from all the noise and just feel . . .
Empty.
So I'll watch the rain,
Put my hands against the glass,
And wonder yet again:
Who am I?
What will it take to know?
