The word maybe fills me with more sorrow than hope
It's two syllables of destruction, spell out everything you must know.
What we have may be here tomorrow.
What we are may be different around who we are with.
What we know may be true or false.
The guessing involved in this pint sized producer of pain is equal to that involved in a calculus test taken by an English major.
And that's why it destroys me.
I must have definites
I must have yes's or no's
I must ultimately know.
Whether it be what's for dinner, of if my depression has returned
Maybe is the source of all the fire that has burned.
YOU ARE READING
Marionette
PoetryJust some poetry. I've given up on being a novelist for the time being so most of what I post will be poetry or short stories if I feel up for it
