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It's a Shitty Metaphor
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Wonderland Darkness doesn't swirl around me the way I see it in my head.
And the lights of the city don't actually twinkle in the rearview mirror of the beat up old car I have always driven.
Because I don't drive.
Voices of the past are not physically able to tug at the frayed edges of carpet I walk down in this fucked up house I metaphorically call life.
I am not actually able to twist the words that reside inside my head into planets I practice my poetry to reach.
There is no actual staircase I walk down each morning to the place that promised me safety and forgiveness.
There is no place for me in the ink driven world where the paper I curl under my fingers might be my last.
Because I have never seen true beauty to compare anything to so this might be it.
And if this isn't real life than why am I here?
They say everything happens for a reason but nothing seems to be happening and when it does it isn't real.
Because city lights don't twinkle.
And strangers don't listen to poetry.
Because the house isn't outside me it is inside.
Because nothing has ever been real.
Because it is easier to manage reality when it doesn't exist.
