Can you dream a dream?
Or am I just dreaming?
Fragments of memories scatter through my mind,
as I frantically try to piece them back together.
Am I wasting time?
Or is time wasting me?
Hanging on to every piece of the past,
I cannot seem to bear with myself.
Do I anger my imagination?
Or does my imagination anger me?
Every question that is thrown at me,
is now answered without a single ounce of creativity.
Is my happiness gone?
Or have I just given up?
I can't seem to figure out my purpose anymore,
does that mean I am not significant in this life?