Four bare walls
enclosing a small room
with furniture covered
in dust and random articles:
      lotion, camera, test, lip-stick.

Four bedrooms decorated
as a blurred mirror
with faded colors and stains
littering the smooth, cold surface:
      led zepplin poster, picnic picture, hibiscus flowers, gold medal.

"Reality is merely an illusion,
albeit a very persistent one."

Sun-kissed skin
under water-blue skies
that whisper against
the ocean's ear:
      bathe her, soothe her, wash her, drown her.

Vibrant green petals
caressing pale scented delicacies
that seduce the silly girl's
heart with their sways in the breeze:
      explore, question, understand, desire.

"Reality continues to ruin my life."

Overwhelmed by the depth
of the billions of eyes upon me
desperately seeking compassion
for that which the past has given to the present:
      listen, feel, hurt, heal.

There is no variation in reality,
only in its interpretation
and acceptance as an imperfect
glorified existence and understanding:
      the wind will blow, the time will pass, the sun will set, the stars will rise.

Reality is subjective,
but the defining feature of humanity.