And I don’t think I am holding a solution.

Is this real life?
Or is this just one example of living?
Which brings up again,
The question of normality,
And I suppose conformity,
And needlessness,
And me.

And am I living,
Or do I just live?

When I look down upon this page,
What do I see?
The inky thoughts,
Of a burnt orange man?
Or the obvious philosophies,
Of a delusional fool?
It’s a grey area.

And I don’t think I am holding,
A solution.
But, if not I,
Then who?