Sabin
11-18-2005, 01:14 AM
This a poem a wrote a while ago while sitting under a tree after school watching people pass by.
What is my reality?
What is truth to me?
It seems I can't be sure
Of what it is I see.
What if all the world's
A canvass I have painted
And the colors that I used
Were paints, slightly tainted.
Maybe this is just a dream
That I wish were real
And I am lying in a coma
In a world that is for real.
Or perhaps this world is real
But my vision's slightly skewed
And everything I look upon
Is distorted when it's viewed.
Perspective seems to be the judge
Of what it is that's true
And all the world we live in
Is deep inside of you.
What is my reality?
What is truth to me?
It seems I can't be sure
Of what it is I see.
What if all the world's
A canvass I have painted
And the colors that I used
Were paints, slightly tainted.
Maybe this is just a dream
That I wish were real
And I am lying in a coma
In a world that is for real.
Or perhaps this world is real
But my vision's slightly skewed
And everything I look upon
Is distorted when it's viewed.
Perspective seems to be the judge
Of what it is that's true
And all the world we live in
Is deep inside of you.