Poetry

“Where am I?”

“My eyes are fixed in a cold stare,
marveling at the art that I hold in my hands,
as I slowly immerse myself in the words,
deeper,
and deeper,
until I drown,

The cold air around me becomes no more than a feeling,
as wall and ceiling and floor gradually disappear,
I see nothing except ink on paper,
“What was that? I didn’t hear.”

My love and hates and worries dissipate,
as that of others appear in their stead,
“Others” in this world fabricated out of thin air,
and exist nowhere except in my head,

I can’t feel or see or smell them,
and to meet them would blow my mind,
yet I cry when they cry and laugh when they laugh,
could the world be any less kind?

Oblivious am I to my surroundings,
as emotions flood my head,
and swim through my veins and tickle my nerves,
filling me with happiness, or dread,

Which one was up to the holder,
the holder of the pen and the page,
yet I am so oblivious likewise to this,
as I forget my whereabouts for an age,

Then my mind adjusts like one’s eyes in the darkness,
And I’m no longer deaf or blind,
The ink on paper becomes no more than paper and ink,
On which my idle conscious dines,

And suddenly my limbs get lighter,
And the world becomes clear and defined,
And I remember that this story in hand is a fragment of imagination,
And therefore to lose yourself is to never find.”

I wanted to challenge myself by writing a poem about the feeling of losing oneself in a book, and I guess it just evolved into a piece talking about how fictional worlds and characters are really nothing more than that-and isn’t it just weird how we become so occupied with them at times?

Minds are crazy

~Azzam Anwar

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