Midnight is approaching, but I’m just crawling in my bed, I’m thinking how my future will turn out, no I’m not, I’m thinking of tomorrow and now I know that something will go wrong, too bad, what will happen next, I wonder, boredom, yelling, tiredness, yes, now I must sleep, but it is beyond me, I shall sleep no more, think no more, become no more, for I am stuck in the past, clutching the few picturesque moments my life beholds, upon me many windows have shattered, and still I bear the scars, a new window breaks day by day, the past remembered, the present forgotten, and the future remains unwanted, I am vanished, yet my shell hath stain, brain processing, but I, I am not this, I do not wish to live in a shell that produces pain, absorbs discomfort, and feels like a shoe four sizes too small. Adolescence is below my capabilities, yet I am now retiring childhood, and birthing adulthood, my thoughts process on a different level than yours, my friend, as naïve as I may seem, I shall not be left blind to reality. I am real, this is real, yet tangibility cannot truly produce reality, for in dreams the senses are at work feeling, hearing, smelling, seeing, and it all seems so real… so magical, and impossible, why cannot dreams be real? Why cannot our bodies fly amongst the clouds, swim alongside the fishes, and explore the unexplored? I have done this and still my shell seems four sizes too small.
This poem has no format at all, and can be hard to read. What do you expect though? I wrote it when i was 12ish.
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