As stress relentlessly builds
Like puddles in a downpour,
It tends to leave the mind
A little bit sore.

Everyone questions
If the afterlife is a myth.
Sometimes this place
She wants nothing to do with.

While many face the future
With a great sense of dread,
Others patiently await the day
That the moon turns red.

Not knowing where to look,
He searches for the signs.
Answers come up empty,
A paper with blank lines.

Yet again
My arm itches
To be written
Sore with red lines.