When Does Real Life Start?, a poem by Drem


I have 1,000 titles for this. Overstatement. You get the drift. I can’t pick one. If you can think of a better one, feel free to suggest.

It took me two days to (re)write it. I’ve been really depressed. And not feeling focused and just generally unwell.

There are also probably a ton of typos. I’ll be re-editing as I continue to edit this.

This was originally titled “Apples to Oranges. Plums to Pears.”



When Does Real Life Start?, a poem by Drem

Originally written August 26, 2010

Edited March 23-24, 2016


Part 1

Cassettes twirl tapes

around physical rounds

of memories

recording this, recording that

about life,

about what history

tells us what happened

during rainbow summers and silver winters.

Not merely this, no.

There’s also the gritty

in-between memories

of truth that has faded

because it wasn’t written down

and memories tend to die

with time.

Can’t help but notice

the dirt under the fingernails

of hands

covering awkward coughs

made by men during speeches.

Out of the mouth of a breed of people

who live on a podium

in the center of the world.

On bullet proof stands

they stand.

The cassettes lead to writings

all about them.

Lovely metaphors

dot the cursive core truths

we’re led to believe.

Glitter pushes through sequels and trilogies

and biopics on in the making vital history

to keep us interested

and if you look closely

it’s all repeated.

A circular timeline with branches connecting it all



Part 2

I’m the memories that don’t get written down.

I’m the forgotten bottle cap in the wave.

I’m dreaming while awake.

And I sleep like I’m dead.

And during that my fears

present themselves ready for their sole task

of bringing my own private past back

to haunt me.

I get confused

because time isn’t presented linearly.

There is my own past when I dream,

and a future I can see.

There is some difference between

those cassette tapes

and my murder scene.

The electric glitch

and the sinking feeling

in above my head.

But, not much.

And I’m trying to run

away from it,

but I’m stuck in sand.

And my teeth are falling out

of my mouth.

Puked out 10 mouthfuls, already.

You think it isn’t real.

And it isn’t what the men write down

in the newspapers and monthly periodicals.

However, I remember the truth

and that truth I try to forget.

To suggest a radical theory

that there is no more

or less reality

than when one is in a dream,

than when one is not.

There is no difference

since both feed off each other.

They are more or less equal.

Even if rational people claim

this is bullshit

because there is never a past, just a present,

when dreaming.

Well, I reply that doesn’t apply to me- as already stated.

I say your experience is limited.

I can go anywhere.

And I don’t know where I am, ever.

I’m always moving

between the worlds.

I agree, I’m falling.

But where is a matter

of perception.

2 thoughts on “When Does Real Life Start?, a poem by Drem

  1. Splendid. Reminds me of Beckett’s “Krupp’s Last Tape”: “Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn’t want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn’t want them back.”

    Liked by 1 person

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