This isn’t old per say. Wrote it about a week or two back. I’m not fully redundant as a person yet.

Voices in his head,
As he lay on his bed,
Repeating, repeating, repeating,
The same old things over again.
Every time he speaks,
Of lies, he reeks.
Does he say things for others?
Or to convince himself, it seems.

And in a false world,
That he’s made for himself,
He finds truth in art,
By involving parts,
Of his soul and his heart.
Using it as an escape,
From a world, so fake
Does he realize that even his world,
Is in his head?

A/N: This one is quite recent. I wrote it at a poetry workshop I attended. Not my best, but hey, not the worst either. ๐Ÿ˜‰

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