Reckon life has its own confessions?
Or is a critique of its design too taboo?
You see, I have this obsession,
And I'm sure many people find it normal to do,
But I'm not so persuaded.
Tell me, off-the records, do you think,
That which seems faded,
And what most don't voice aloud,
Could inspire such an endearing vow?
An ever-growing link?
And it's doubling,
And it's corruptive.
Words can't begin to express images.
Nor can images begin to express dreams.
There are no witnesses,
To that of my themes.
I'm a dreamer,
That can't stop dreaming.
The lines of reality are a blur.
Sometimes I am left on the other wing,
Drifting off to a peaceful alternate universe.
Assure me, if you will,
That all is alright,
Because this world is starting to lose my sight.
Is it wrong of me to think ill of this world of my actuality?
Then again, what is dream and what is reality?
No, not the one in my fiction,
Wait, or it is that my conviction?
It certainly is my addiction.
Sticky note to self:
Do I need help?