The Illusion of Insight

I can name every pattern. Circle it with a red pen. Talk about my childhood,

like a story I once read. I can quote every author, say exactly what

I heard. Still wake up in the morning with the same weight on my chest.

Oh. Knowing isn't changing. Inside just the open door. Nothing moves till

my feet touch the floor. I can see it. I can say it. Still be stuck in

the same old frame. Knowing isn't changing till I walk it through the rain. Yeah.

I've been caught in the chaos, watching every thought go by. Hmm.

Like a quiet spectator in the balcony of my life.