Caught

I’m lost in the space between what’s real and what’s not.

I’m caught in what is and there isn’t a lot.

I think my skin’s smooth, but to me it feels rough.

And I would long to cry, but I don’t care enough.

I can’t see further forward than what’s too far away.

There’s a message that’s spoken, but it’s impossible to say.

There’s a voice in my head singing a song that won’t stop.

And I haven’t reached the bottom, but I’m too far from the top.

I’m trapped in this space, and I don’t know what’s real.

I thought that this was a gift; I didn’t know I could steal.

They wanted it back, but I’d spent it on a crutch.

So they took all I had left, but there wasn’t that much.

I hope that that isn’t real, and I hope I wake up.

I wish the stories that were true were the ones I make up.

Because what was real has now passed, and I have nothing left.

I thought I’d given the gift back, but they took it in theft.

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