Am I just trying to hide from the whiplash of reality?
Am I a mere slow snail evading life's cruelty?
Is poetry a mere consolation for the moments I slumped?
Is it a childhood illusion I should have long dumped?
Am I dead to the reality in the twilight world "sleepy hollow? "
Is it a road to follow?
I see the heavy clouds holding promise
As I reminisce
But will such serene still reign tomorrow?
Will I really do it?
Who I'm I?
An Author, a poet?