Canvas of Emotions: Painted in Poetry

Uncertainty of What's Real

I wake up to the aching, a dull, relentless throb,

Is it the pain that's real, or just my mind's cruel job?

Each pulse, each sharp reminder, it grips me from within,

But is it truth I'm feeling, or just the place I've been?

The bottle sits beside me, its answers clear and close,

But every time I reach for it, I wonder if I'm lost.

Is this the hurt I think it is, or just another game?

I've danced this line so many times, I'm starting to forget my name.

The pain, it feels like fire, but am I fanning flames?

Or am I drowning something deep in medicine that claims

to heal, to soothe, to numb me, to offer me reprieve?

But every time I take the pill, I wonder, do I deceive?

It's hard to tell the difference between the pain and need,

Between the hurt I cannot shake and cravings that I feed.

I question every tremor, each ache within my chest—

Is it real, or just a symptom of the habit I can't best?

They tell me to be careful, to watch the lines I tread,

But how do I see clearly when my mind's so full of dread?

I take the pill for comfort, for a moment of release,

But all it leaves behind me is a hollow, false relief.

Is the pain just in my body, or somewhere in my soul?

And does this pill bring healing, or does it steal control?

I wish I knew the answer, could separate the two,

But all I feel is blurred and numb, and I don't know what's true.

So here I am, still questioning, the cycle never ends,

Is this my body crying out, or just the means to mend?

The pills—they blur the lines for me, I wish I knew the way

To find the truth beneath it all, and make the pain obey.