I Didn't Write This.

Is it real?
Is it there?
Is it fake?
or bare?
The raw confusion,
the blessed seclusion.
The shaking,
scraping,
tearing,
breaking.
If it's sane
or deadly
made,
If it's scribed
in blood, or
pressed in
rain,
If it's true
and not pretend.
The cold and burning
felt depends.
Shiver,
slurred,
sound,
yet blurred.
Mind encircled,
swept beyond,
blazing forward,
starts unfound.
If it's real, or
fake, or
sane.
Secrets lie beneath the ground
buried deep,
with sleep unsound.
Secrets never told will lie,
for truth unfolds
will break the sigh.