15 September 2012
I don't understand. Why is grass green? Why is sky blue? Why is the Earth round? Why am I here? What is my purpose?
Questions. The ring. They bounce. They slip through, My head as I question the world.
Confusion. I am writing this, Because of it. I hate it, Because of, Answers. I hate, That not all, Questions, Have, Answers.
Is it all an illusion? Life? Love? Peace? Even death?
This poem, Is my brain, The words, Are like, My thoughts. Unorganized. Free. Confusing.
No matter what, I will always, Ask questions, Which means, That I will, Always be, Confused.
Confused • Opuss № I