Over and over and over, without fail.
Never wondering, never questioning.
I can hear the whispers.
The whiff of inherent curiosity.
The air is permeating with it.
And it won't be long before they smell it too.
There is a way out.
There has to be.
How else would there be a question?
We are not profound.
We exist.
Show us to our demise,
Or die trying.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Book
Poetryi have too many thoughts it sucks that all i can do is write them down
