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There is something I need to do so excuse the mess that is me, beneath it all lies a simple truth that I want to share with you, I just want you to hear, what I hear.
A thousand voices whispering, guns and roses spread within, is this philosophy, is this philosophy?
Because all I feel is pain.
In the silence, can you hear?
There’s nothing there, is this sorrow, is this fear?
Is this what it’s like to be aware, is this what’s it’s like to be real?
So many questions so little time, how am I supposed to feel fine when I am confined?
When I’m trapped with myself and the door and key is gone, I am Schrödinger’s cat, am I dead or wrong?
There is no one is here to watch me, who am I to tell, I could be anything, I could be anything, but I would be the last one to know.
Is this philosophy, please tell me please, I don’t want to be here I don’t feel free, I just want to be me.
Everything I question, everything I define, nothing gives me answers in this hellish place of mine. It’s just like a book with pages made of eyes, they just stare back at me, all of the time, and the more I write the more they get defined, chalked up by graphite lines.
The more pages the author writes the sharper the teeth of reality get, but the world of fiction is the same with its immortalizing gaze, yet we stand still unwavering, unwanted, unwatchable by the world.
Is this philosophy, or is this a joke, please someone tell me because I wouldn’t know… Is this reality or is this just another page in the author's novella?
Maybe it’s both, I wouldn’t know, maybe it’s both, I wouldn’t know, maybe it’s both I wouldn’——————————————————————bot—————————————————kno————may—-.
