There are questions that I have that have no answer–

Questions left unanswered

matters plastered to the rafters:

threat of fracture,

under pressure,

weight of all the gathered doubts

disputes

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,

tortured,

by my lack of knowledge.

 

If I could change anything,

believe me,

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.

 

Reality,

in totality,

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.

You see,

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.

And this

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

alone

terrified of the thought

that being human is about existing in solitude.

 

If I could change but one thing in this world,

believe me,

I would make the mind just a tad simpler.