Disillusionment

A poem I wrote about disassociative questioning a feeling of disillusionment.

Without the time a clock ticks.

Secondless seconds runs through bitter tricks,

this absent thought never sticks,

this grip on reality I can’t fix

so I let it pass.

 

Vacant dreams where I can fly

above life, can’t intervene or ask why

my lost words will not comply

with my other self, two sides of a lie

and I am not whole.

 

Breathless breaths ask if I’m real?

This story of existence, not a deal

I buy, because I do feel

wonder at the concept. It is surreal.

I am not present.

 

Are you there when I don’t look?

Were you really there or have I mistook

reality for story book?

Because the absence of truth, like a hook

it sunk me deep down.

 

Touch, taste, smell, thoughts, sound and sight.

Counting out senses to overwhelm night

and tell me if I am right.

The world exists, but in tricks of light.

Doubt will consume me.

 

Free will is a blank debate

that needs the answers to questions I hate

to ask, because it’s too late

to determine if there’s such a thing as fate.

We’d have to be real.

 

I am often told I should

just try to breathe in and trust me I would

if there was a guarantee that I could

open eyes, pull back the hood,

know if this is real.

 

I need to know if this is real.