I'm not an idealist, Just a Realist.

Secretly; we are all dead.
The lives we live are a farce
The people we meet are merely shapes,
Shaping an illusion which no mortal can begin to equate.

We live in a parallel; abstractly perverse.
Living life totally in reverse,
Every particle and molecule of hydro-nitrogen effervesced
Has been selected and placed before us.

The human race is obsessed; obsessed by detail.
Each sinew of each chunk is stretched beyond practicality,
In reality we are immersed in our own microcosm,
Indulged in conspiracies.

If you were to place yourself outside of the box; you would too see what I see.
A world full of fickle ironies
So sheltered from feeling
So alone from ones self

And yet; so detached from humanity.
We are oysters of the sea
Washed up like debris
Scattered around lost in an eternal wave of misery.

But inside every oyster; there is an inner wealth in us all.
Shining so white gleaming like a pearl
The potency is boiling in each and everyone of us,
Toiling away to achieve inner sanctity.

Here now the world is engulfed in matter;
It is a foot race to stardom
Survival of the fittest- where the winner takes all
And the latter is cold; alone; and left ringing.

I’m not an idealist; just a realist.

I dare not dream in a world in which I am oppressed
Summarise theories to raise eternal query,
Instead I shall embrace the bitter after-taste
For now I shall live for tomorrow because today I am already dead.