I am barely a real concept, whose perception is occluded by twinkling stardust and rust clung cogs.
I wonder of stars in galaxies, distant, growing with an untranslatable lull.
I hear my heart beat as a quasar, shifting as predictably as a deer scare.
I see three colors, 10 million shades, and only through my eyes.
I want what I don’t yet know I do not have; 20 more colors, the sixth sense, the seventh, and the eighth.
I am plunged into the vacuum that is utter confusion, are you not?

I pretend nothing. Reality is subjective. Unicorns are real.
I feel like nothing but millions of atoms of clinging earth and mass, holding in organs and bones, while knowing I amount to much more.
I touch other’s lives in a way I will never feel or experience, if only because I have ten eyes and *******.
I worry to awake from this dream of confused, polluted nature, if only because of my fear that a better may await, and I have been missed while dreaming.
I cry to remember some days what I beg to forget most.
I am a cheater of nature, a creator, a manipulator, and a murderer of sorts.

I understand the upside world that is held in the dew kissed blades of warrior plant life.
I say to the world “Be quiet. You’re thinking too loud to hear it.”
I dream of real, unaltered acts, people, and emotions drawn from a plethora of real fakes.
I try as hard as I can, knowing how little I’ve done, and how much I have not yet considered doing.
I hope for the world, as selfish as this may be, that it won’t shudder, quake, and crust over whilst I inhabit it.
I am merely the juvenile, bovine animal that will farm the future. No need to worry. Carry on.