The question of why haunts me in the night,
It haunts me over the tones of music playing in the background.
What meaning brought me to this place?
And yet for some reason I don’t care,
The meaning is meaningless to me,
I never thought of it,
Not until the music asked me that haunting question late at night.
For some reason such thoughts echo vibrantly over my own,
They want meaning and they make me nervous to find it.
But I don’t need it,
I never have,
So then why do their odd tones make me wonder?
Why have I never cared what the answer is,
When so many others do?
I write Poetry and fiction as a hobby, I've written a full book but never managed to get it published.
My poems tend to be thoughtful and philosophical with a touch of spirituality.
My fiction is mostly sci-fi and fantasy but usually with twists and interesting ideas thrown in there. I have been told I don't have a solid grasp of genre, which is fair since the whole concept doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me anyways, I write what I want, and nothing else.
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