to fall on my own, to feel my face fracture as it collides with the cement, to finally come to terms with my own humanity. to see the results of my inactions.
i wonder where all the time went? i wonder who really is watching? i wonder even, sometimes, how to define the person that writes when i write. is it really me? or is it some part of me, screaming for attention? i wonder how i would go about venting the whole...
is it all fake? is all writing, singing, acting... is it all a big game? a copy? or is it really something meaningful, all the soul-searching...
it seems that no one's got it figured out.
six billion people can't be wrong... can they?
notes from a not-for-profit life. reader notes for poems: bold represents emotional thought, boldness; italics represent narrator-thought or God-thought.
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