Is it just I who muses late?
Into the veil of the night?
The laconicism is crisp of darkness
Black and cold, menace foretold?

Am I the only one
In the whole of humanity?
Who cannot cease to wonder of
The thoughts of worthlessness

That my every trivial thought
Is a waste of lives that fought
To come into the world
To breathe and dance and rot,

In the deathly tempo of time
Reminder of lives gone by
In philosophical demise
My trouble helps not anything...

Still I lie here, heaving through,
I cannot finish this song for you.
That would be misleading, to falsify
That my life showed an inkling of purpose—

*Of anymore than just a cry.

If there weren't any reality,
Then there wouldn't be any way to wonder
Questioning it's truth, its very existence.
You think, therefore you are?
Your conscious ability to question, is that proof enough?
I ponder, I bask, this day now, it has passed—
Yet what can be confirmed until
We know consciousness is pure validity
Some would say the topic is mundane, over-analyzed,
Some assume there's no reason to think about it,
After all, no answer is indisputable,
And why ponder that which cannot be confirmed?
But who are we to say?
Philosophy's essence can only confuse one more,
(I'll accidentally remind myself of such, every day)
And yet in the quaking
Of the diamond-dusted dawn,
In the tremble of the night,
The apperception of it all,
Through and through, and 'round the late
Can even I, can all, including those who have died—
Entrust their might through life on grime
Of every sullen soul's demise—
Within the evening's promise of hope
Or blindly fall
Beneath it all...

I wonder if people who are clinically sane spend the better part of their lives wondering if they're not.

Disoriented poem
                                 True nonsense
               But by definition
Does it have purpose
              Tell me for certain
                                 Is it a worthless fraud
                                       Composed of senses’ shells
                                                         Concealing life without the law
                                                             ­                Law of a motive,
                                             One’s reason and justification
                            Now fragmented with a poem
             But is the poem illustration
Symbolic, emblematic,
             Is their truth in its act
                            Of destruction, any thinking?
                                             Shall it raze the moral ground?
                                                         ­  Or far more quickly
                                                         ­                  Blight us all?
                                                            ­                          All in this state, this
                                                            ­                                               fluster,
                                                        ­                                      This plight,
                                                         ­                     All in this way
                                                             ­  That we’re departing