Centauri Wilson

I want to exist in the real world
To plant my roots
To hear the life of summer dawns and dusks
To see the flowers growing through sidewalk cracks
To smell the passing waft of freshly cut grass
I wish to be real
I wish to be real

I soak myself in story and tale
I devour line after line
Murmur along to the dialogue
And I’m not me, I never was
Not as long as I’m playing along

It’s as though I cannot stand to exist outside of a story
As though I cannot face life itself
Why can I not be real?
Why must I shroud myself in music, in poetry, in medium?
Why must I live only to forget?