I'm not sure
There's much left
To hope for.
To live for.
To work towards.
It all seems
Pointless.
Like a gun
Without bullets.
A guillotine
Without a blade.
Except
Life without purpose
Is more deadly.
Lethal.
Tragic.
Than instruments of death
Without their required pieces.
Because purpose
Is required
To live.
So maybe.
I need to be the missing piece.
Maybe I need to be taken out.
Maybe
Maybe I am the blade on the guillotine.
Maybe I'm the bullet from the gun.
Maybe this is all In my head.
Maybe
That's the problem.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts
PoetryMy thoughts tend to form like poems, so I figured I'd share them- part of me hoping they make sense to more than just myself.