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Poem

Things are not making sense, and I am questioning if my reality is so because I thought it in to being. 
Am I the only one hearing the truth?
Am I the only one believing?
I think I am in need of a witness. 

Archons deceive souls using the illusion of separation. The mind is the sole governing agency of the body. Quantum immortality theory creates a blindsight that is out of our comprehension. Tell me, how can it possibly be that a once pop punk kid knows the way to the stars by blinking 182 times? And knowing this only makes me wonder, was that consecutive blinks or were there a few breaks in between?

Time is parallel. The past and future exist all within this moment, which makes me think, are all the ghosts I have encountered just a parallel version of me? Haunting other me’s from timelines on different frequencies. All the while they are being pestered by an apparition of a woman laying in their bed, under a pile of blankets, writing babbling poetry riddled with romanticized dread and aliens. 

If we create matter, what is the matter with me? Did I create this brokenness? I was told fear is food for a low frequency that brings us all down to the muffled murk of our modern ways. How do I transduce my environment to merge conscious and subconscious together - a propulsion system that links multidimensionality, so I no longer have to be stuck in this conundrum of a Shakespearean tale of what may or may not be. 

Yes, that is the gist - time is parallel and thoughts create our reality. Missing items, socks, keys disappearing and reappearing in alternate locations. Somewhere there is a version of me stealing all my things and leaving behind opaque residue and far gone conclusions.

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