Poetry of the Anonymous

XXVIV - Addiction

I am subconsciously self-destructive,

Happiness a purely hypothetical concept,

An illusion for which we 'act accordingly',

Creating moral virtues out of fear –

Without emotional disdain I'm empty,

A morbid tombstone of absolute vacuity,

Ever aware that I did not chose to exist,

Therein lies the illusory essence of free will –

Forgetting all I don't want to remember,

Ironic for now I wish it to be recalled; relived,

A feat of divine providence, of subconscious omnipotence,

Of a benevolence we loved and lost –

Caught within the fatality of fatalism,

"We are such stuff as dreams are made on",

Yet in my dreams I exist only to wake and find:

That I live within an existentially self-perpetuated nightmare.