Tonight I am flying and I do not need wings
someone else does, though it’s mine, I feel
Experience’s as vague a concept as “things”
I might know it, but do I? for real?
it’s not my soliloquy and am not aware
observation is lost so I make it my own
your enmity is mine now, cynics beware
care less for the effect but in pain, you go down
Caught in the web of a make believe story
the sight of understanding, shattered and cracking
This life, i never intended needs a query
i know am not, but why do I feel like I am flying?
Should I write 
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