There are times when words become hollow vessels,
Shells of concepts which house appearance but no meaning.
There are times when emotions become landscapes,
Gardens which have been overrun by weeds.
There are times when our dreams become fantasies,
Movies that have no basis in reality but only in relieving our pain.
It is times like this that I wonder, Lord, why?
Why does it seem that I am made this way,
Always seeking something that does not exists,
or seemingly grappling with something alone
that I know others struggle with?
Why is the reality so often less than the potential,
the illusion more powerful in others
than the truth in myself?
How do I tell myself, that self that will not be turned,
that the reality is the reality; there is nothing else,
that even in the reality there is possibility for things greater
than I can possibly imagine?
How? I do not know.
I only know that I whisper words devoid of meaning,
feel emotions devoid of feeling,
live reality devoid of dreaming.