My view doesn’t makes any sense to my living anymore
For personal statement to me would be a painful state.
Might be an illusion I see or the mind is not here with me
What I write can only have its history, neither the voice nor the picture
So the words has its piles of letter but not from the reality, born
It will be floating down inside me Twenty four an hour to render any meaning.
Drama around me wouldn’t much effect on me, where it should
But it should solve its questions inside of me, which doesn’t
Consciousness is what my enemy has become
Where what I speak what I hear what I see or what I be..
In real can be deceptive form
I wonder what truth is and what is not
What makes us human and what’s not


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