Lost (a poem)

Maybe it’s the fogs that keep me from seeing you

Maybe it’s the music around me that breaks my focus from you

Maybe It’s the illusions that chain me into an infinite loop

Or maybe it’s just me.

The strong humanly desire in me, to understand and reason with your world that you created

The foolish heart that thinks he will find his own way in the world through others

The thirst for more answer, more life, more meaning, and more of the world

Yes, it is me.

Like a drunken man, I fall weak into the hands of the devil

Like water, easily manipulated into the shape of anything it fills to satisfy

Conscious of my own death and shame, yet

Encumbering myself because of my stubbornness, lust, desire, will, and ignorance

How do I live as apart of the dead people and also judge those who are the living dead?

How do I trick myself into smiling through the pain?

How can my seemingly shallow mind be viewed as a positive influence?

Is it possible for the dead to help the dead to live? Would that not be leading one another to the valley of hell?