I say- my life,
and what I see and what
I breathe
And you say “Man-
that’s crazy-”
I say “Yeah.
But I was there.”
And it was my reality.
And is my totality
up until now and here.
Is your story true-
like that? Or is it something else
like a blurred dream of sleep
and awake and breathing
and sleep again.
When my moments are fractured
and splitting into points of light
they create rainbows
and brilliance and that
is real too.
A flat pane might let in some light
but fat pains
shatter that sanity
into a shining example
of clarity.
A friend of mine used to say, "Man, that's crazy," when I would tell him stories about my life. I think sometimes, that my perspective on things is different in ways that aren't necessarly wrong. I do like this poem.