A trippy poem about what is real and how much of it is created within my mind. |
-A Century of Lies- by Keaton Foster Who am I Am I real Am I fake Is this a dream A nightmare Am I asleep In some distant place All alone Within my skin and bones Imagining everything Created from absolute nothing Could it be possible A likely explanation For all that has ever been Am I living in a century of lies Created by me Or imposed by something unseen Will I ever wake up Will I ever taste reality Will I ever know for certain Or is that the point Fear of not knowing Forcefully turned into believing Faith through an assertion of truth When what is true is speculative as best After my death Will I wake up With widening eyes Will I see the world One of Gods and angels Or one of monsters and demons Have such places already been Within an awakened realm That I have been sleeping in Such questions seem pointless Written out for me to ask Heretics often confess That I am going to hell Stage hands, not running the show They are only doing what they Assume is undeniably right I ignore their plight The direction of their words And their actions seem to contradict So here I am, persisting Imagining everything that is within Outward bound Am I living in a century of lies Will I know the truth upon death Or will I know the opposite Of what I have come to know as real Is there any difference Or more of the same How will I know Or simply I won’t Does any of this matter How could it ever Who am I Am I real Am I fake Is this a dream A nightmare Am I asleep In some distant place Or am I wide awake I fear that I don’t know… A Century of Lies Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2012. |