I don’t know why I’m writing this.
I don’t know why I don’t know why.
Could it be because how and why?
I don’t know why I’m so unsure of myself.
Myself probably hates myself.
I don’t know why I’ve never felt love
and no you can’t give me a hug.
I don’t know why life makes no sense,
maybe I should’ve been born a fish.
I don’t know why I choose to write,
could it be because my thoughts keep me up at night.
I don’t know why flowers must ever die.
I’m sorry something so beguiling is often so easy to pass by.
I don’t know who I’m writing this for,
but I hope whoever finds it discerns a little piece of my soul.