There are questions that I have that have no answer–
Questions left unanswered
matters plastered to the rafters:
threat of fracture,
weight of all the gathered doubts
debates about the Rapture.
Any idea I can capture
backfires and sends me
singing, swirling down into disaster
falling faster to the Pit below
and any chance of happiness
is snatched away to nothingness
and here I am,
by my lack of knowledge.
If I could change anything,
I would alter human nature.
The hardest thing about being human
is having the ability to think,
allowing of course for the crushing doubt that anything is real.
I like to think that life is like a dream
where you can’t run,
where you can’t scream,
where you are so convinced that it’s real;
it’s like waiting to wake up.
I think I think therefore I am
and wonder exactly how many other people are thinking.
I wonder that if life is like a dream
where thinking thoughts can create worlds
and my thinking is proof of my existence,
whose dream am I in?
Proof of my existence–
my significance consistent
in an instant:
all my brilliance
only born of reminiscence–
I’m resistant to admittance
that without supreme assistance
it’s good riddance to this pittance
I call life in my persistence.
is nothing more than someone else’s dream:
someone’s dream and nothing more
a simple thought behind a snore.
But that’s not enough for me.
I want to open up the bedroom door–
bring the dreamer back to shore–
because this life, this tearing sore,
this isn’t what I’m looking for.
But this life, this war
between the dreamer and his dream
is all I have.
All I have and nothing more.
this is why I want to go back.
Why I want to regress in my evolution.
How nice would it be
to be carefree–
depending only on what means
are necessary for survival.
Being human is about definition.
Being human is about finding a deeper purpose.
Being human is about being lost
terrified of the thought
that being human is about existing in solitude.
If I could change but one thing in this world,
I would make the mind just a tad simpler.