From here I see a world,

A place I can touch and feel,

But at times I'm uncertain if it's real.

 

Apart from the people,

Puppets with thoughts and dreams,

I wonder if it's all that it seems. 

 

Awake, alive, and story telling. 

But what happens in our sleep?

Perhaps my thoughts have wandered too deep.

 

Trapped on this side of my skin,

And all on my own,

In a prison of flesh and bone.

 

I wonder at others.

If their cells are like mine?

Do they scratch at the walls from their confines?

 

My eyes are my windows.

I'm inside looking out.

My voice is barely heard

No matter how I shout.

 

My ears give me peace.

For the music I hear

Makes me feel less alone,

And drives away fear.

 

But touch still bemuses me. 

How I do crave it so.

Yet, if what I brush is real

I have yet to know.

 

This side of my skin.

Trapped with me deamons and ghosts that grin.

Can anyone know what I feel within?