Life itself survives on the grid we call the brain.
Yet we can resurrect carefreely.
But in the end, if my jolts aren't there,
Am I still me?
When I nearly die,
And my jolts go away,
Can I still be free?
Despite these eyes still being mine,
Will I still be me?
This, I fear, is my query,
Something that makes me be,
Depressed beyond all natural belief,
That I just may not be me.
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
Life itself survives on the grid we call the brain.
Yet we can resurrect carefreely.
But in the end, if my jolts aren't there,
Am I still me?
When I nearly die,
And my jolts go away,
Can I still be free?
Despite these eyes still being mine,
Will I still be me?
This, I fear, is my query,
Something that makes me be,
Depressed beyond all natural belief,
That I just may not be me.
Part of these older poem spams from me. This one was written while I was having a bit of a crisis. People often felt drawn to it due to its odd use of words. I don't know, meh.
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