Gaslit mind, mine is blind.
Sunlit eyelids, covered eyes.
Afterimage, booby prize.
It couldn’t be any different,
Out of sight, out of mind.
A snap of a finger (hypnotic drive).
Brainstorming impulse; cloudy eyes.
While karma’s a bitch,
trauma is its son.
Creativity is a burden;
It might as well die.
All the photos I refused to take,
All the group photos I was left out of,
Aren’t making it any better;
The negatives neither.
I killed my dreams
(and it’s killing me inside).
I killed my dreams. I buried them alive.
I sleep. I’m awake. I fight to survive…
I’ve seen some goals revert
(roll back to dreams).
These dreams never had the chance.
Those who wander and are lost
Those who wonder and are last
May they find each other’s paths
Grasping the rationale behind the title choice would require thinking outside the box, but that’s on you, reader. If I explained it right away, it would feel like explaining a joke, more precisely giving it away (a puzzle). Sure, without that bold claim of mine, there would be no ‘puzzle’, not one that you would be aware of. Play along and see where it leads.
Feel free to leave a comment.
Reveries That I Call Poetry 