Am I the dream, or am I the dreamer?
Is everything as it seems?
Or is the grass really greener?
Examining my wounds and invisible scars
If my real life is lived far beyond the stars
My senses lead me to a pond
Where I stared
Into the eyes of a stranger
The ripples waved and tore
But they couldn't break our bond
And back at me he stared
His eyes unaccustomed to danger
There I was, or so I think it was me
Looking at myself
In a storefront glass at the end of the street
When a different reflection appeared
I rubbed my eyes, then squinted and peered
Hoping the poser would have disappeared
But he didn't
He stood tall
His shoulders free from the weight of the world
His confidence had not taken a fall
He gave me a glance, a curious one
I assumed a runner's stance, a furious one
And bolted back to my home
Set well under the sun
When I walked through the door
I noticed the notepad I forgot on the table
It was by then five, or maybe four
I tried to read the clock, but was desperately unable
All at once I was overcome with fatigue
The room began to spin and I had to sit down
"You ran too much, " I said
"You're not in the league."
"That's funny, you should jot this down."
I reached for the pad and felt more drowsy
I reached for the pen and felt more lousy
My eyes were so heavy, I couldn't defend
A noise at the door
It was five, maybe four
But it was me, walking through it again
Something was wrong
Something was wrong with my brain
Something, something that I couldn't explain
I tried lifting the pen, to no end
My strength snapped like a wafer
I mumbled, "I'll write that down later"
As my head hit the table
And I fell asleep on the paper
When I awoke, my bedroom door was closed
I stretched and I yawned on my pillow's rose
I slowly arose and suddenly froze
Where was my pad full of the notes?
The ones I used to promote the story I wrote?
It was on the table in the other room
I waved away the clouds of doom
I picked up the pad and smiled as I read
Of how the character actually thought
Something was really wrong with his head
My words were the ‘something' he caught
"The irony is, " I said aloud
"He knows there's more, but he's full of doubt.
So he'll keep questioning existence
Over happy drinks behind bars
He wants to escape his bruises and scars
And live a better life far beyond the stars."
While my skill was attempting not to boast
A question burned in me
Indeed, it began to roast
I saw a plate beside the pen
And on it was a slice of toast
Next to a simile I put down on paper
My eyes hovered over them like gulls on the coast
They were the two pieces of a broken wafer…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem