This is what

This is what

There is a voice that picks at my silence,
trying to convince me to be in violence,
towards the notions of living being a real feel.

There is a vision of forever's limited existence,
trying to trick me into looking for consistence,
in the definitions of fiction and what is real.

There is a touch that's been pressuring my skin,
trying to confuse the memories twisting they spin,
and disorganize the numbers on the clocks wheel.

There is this idea that has been replaying my dreams,
trying to quiet the memories and their screams,
and find another way to organize me back to feel.

This is what is an undefined way of thought,
trying to understand what it is I have sought,
from the voice, vision, touch, and ideas reveal.