My mind is a never-ending stream,
A racing current, an inconsistent dream.
Thoughts of people,
Myself,
Lonely,
Lost.
Echoing at what cost?
I can't shake the feeling,
No matter how hard I try.
Maybe because I'm one of them,
A lonely one with nothing more
To turn to.
But still,
I continue to search for a place
To call my own.
A place where I'm not alone,
A place without judgment.
But such a place will never exist,
Just within my head, a white abyss,
A space for me,
A space of being alone,
Where I'm not prone.
I'm waiting for something,
Though I don't know what.
In this space of blankness, where problems are not,
There are just white, empty walls.
My own little white space, that I call my home.
But I still wonder, how long will I wait until I am not alone?
YOU ARE READING
As Time Slows Around Us [Poetry]
PoetryAs complicated as time itself, like the silent conversations with the moon and sun, lie the complexity of the screaming but silent thoughts of the stars. "All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." ...
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