Why do I even have to ask such questions?
When the answers float in front of me,

What makes life a gift, or a curse? Is it circumstance?
Is there a choice in the matter at all? Or has this moment simply
been waiting to be since the beginning.

As haphazard as I am, even I find good days,
Even on the days I'm withering away inside.

I ponder my circumstances with the vigilance of a soldier
waiting for a stray bullet to pass by his head.

What a way to live, what a way to write poetry.
Let me tell you, poetry is about as good as ash
tossed in the sea.

It serves as a fossil, a reminder of the past, but through
the binoculars of a different person.

It doesn't explain a thing either, it's just text, an empty shell
Once the shell falls away, what remains is what we sough after, but never wanted.

Let me tell you, When pleasure is followed by pain
there's nothing but destruction
but when pain is followed by understanding,
well, maybe, just maybe.