It is ridiculous,
To be here in this world,
In this body.
It is stupid to love by my blood than by my heart,
And who allowed the maniacs to have minds?
Who attached thinking and knowing to peril?
Why have history’s artists scoured for an answer,
Tirelessly,
Fully and utterly,
When the only answer they found was the ending.
The closing of the last chapter, the last word on the page.
When all you can do is stare at the ink and wonder,
Where is the rest?
This must be all there is.