Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Poetry

Consciousness is a game I play;
Pretending I don’t know how
because it’s more fun to figure out why
I am this way-

There are no cogs in my brain,
No elaborate circuitry-
But I feel the thoughts
en masse
Turning around a million ways

I can look at these things
and objectify
or say I know why
they behave the way they do-

Is consciousness a construct?
Something that we create-
to divert our attention from the fact
that we don’t know anything?

Am I alone in the world
with nothing but phantoms to keep
me company?
-Like the creation of an amputated limb
that I miss?

I don’t want to be alone,
but I am so-
Alone in my brain
and locked away, really,
from everyone