I ask myself a question.
In anguish and in vain.
“What’s the point of living,
In terror and in pain?”
“Is all our life,
But just a dream.
A nightmare we can’t control?”
“Our existence is so subtle,
A secret of the soul?”

I give myself a reason.
To continue to live on.
But I feel I am a useless piece.
A merely lifeless pawn.
Has every month,
I’ve struggles through.
Helped another in any way?
Or is life so meaningless?
Have I reason to stay?

Thinking about the time I’ve spent.
Locked away from the world.
And recalling the lifeless glares,
Of the strictly dead and cold.
Have lonesome night,
I’ve spent in thought?
Hidden away from sight.
Given others a chance to remember.
A glance of Dreamland’s Center?