in search of the real

Short poem



The words of the songs don't help.

And tear stained pillows don't come to life

I don't know what's real any more

I don't know if I'm even real

But even though the pillow won't come to life, I will surrender my head to it all the same,
How would I know if even all that I ever thought were true turned out to be false?

Watching the swaying of the grass in the breeze, by the my mind quietens.

And now there's no more monsters in the cracks in the pavement

And I'm no longer wrong for stepping out of line

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