poetry

What is real?

I’ve never been satisfied with myself,

Always wished I’d be a more exciting book on the shelf.

But I’m not.

Sometimes I’d laugh louder than anyone else,

And smile brighter than the brightest  of stars in the darkest of nights;

But it all meant nothing.

I felt an immense emptiness.

And as time progressed, the worse it became;

I started telling lies without guilt or shame.

Even worse, it drove me…

Mad.

Today I can’t decipher between the lies or truth

That my stories might have had.

Today I don’t know what is real and what isn’t.

I try to make sense of my mental mess but how do I expect them to understand,

When even I cant?

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2 thoughts on “What is real?

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