My past self would've hated who I am today And I still feel that hatred in the parts of him that stayed

Question marks are met with periodsBy people full of arroganceThey have every answer, nothing mysteriousAnd yet they have no evidence.

We are each on our own quests To find meaning in our livesBut the meaning we seekIs only a reflectionOf everything we have lost before.

I like to imagineThat when we look uponA pitch black night’s skyAnd ignorantly label it colorlessIs it actually filled with all the colorsWe could never even imagine.

Real life is just another stage.Just another stage where I have to look and actLike I have everything put together;everything neat, perfect, and in order,when in reality I’m slowly dying,Slowly decaying, screaming and clawing,at this little box I’ve been put into, Trying desperately to escape.

Love is the poetry of the starsThe wind is the breath of the earthTo never become who you areOr to change at all, which is worse?

I often wonder and imagineWhat lies just beyond the fringeOf the human experience;What is it that we do not see?

I’ve been worried since I left the wombLike a schizophrenic on shroomsLike a hypochondriac on crackNever shy with the panic attacks;Internal reality succumbs to psychosisDreams destroyed by self-diagnosis.

At least I find solace in searching.