NOT A NORMAL SWING

I sit here in this summer heat inside of my mind, in the cold of winter. Time and space, which one is the true illusion? Can we ever clear up the confusion? They want to silence the reality that I created with medication. I keep telling them through the voices of the angels calling life is never what it seems to be, and we all live inside our dream world.

The truth is in our reflection. I sit here in my rocking chair feeling like my grandfather did when he found out the grey hair made him feel older, and I recall all the wisdom he shared with me. Only if he could see me now would he ask me do you still read the words that I wrote you before I died



Am I an angel, a demon, a person, or this mad poet when I break down and cry because the swingset that I swing on is not on the playground