To me, Life is but a dream. A feather in the wind That never alights. Laborious mornings, Torturous nights.
The parts of me I thought were mine, Were simply archetypes I learned from t.v. Or books.
I drank from the brook Of knowledge Till I had my fill. The cold, refreshing stream Was not real. Twas a poison Made to turn dreams Into nightmares.
I suffered night terrors At a time I was alone. My true self Ill-fitted for this world. Bliss and sanity gone; Swirled down the drain of insanity. My true self I can no longer be. I don't know what I am If I cannot be Me.