Why (and other poems)

W H Y

You stare at the floor.

Your brain reprimands you, saying
It could've been better,
Could've been greater,
Could've been more,
But it wasn't, because of

You.

You are what's wrong.
You are the bug.
You are the virus.
You are the gum stuck to the bottom of their shoes.
You are the soul purpose for every wrong doing.

And you feel nothing.
Absolutely nothing.

You are beautifully numb to the pain that has been striking at you since you've sat down on the hardwood floor in complete darkness, staring down at the floorboards, wondering if you were just too oblivious or too naive.

You wonder why.

Why people have to act this way,
Why you're the problem,
Why you were even born.

By now hours have passed,
You haven't eaten nor slept,
And you still stare at the floorboards.
Your eyes sting.

Why?

You don't know the answers anymore.

You've given up trying to solve every equation adding up to you and why you are the one to blame.

You're done with thinking and rethinking, and now
You are once again beautifully numb.

The only noise you hear is your soft breathing,
In
and
Out,
And you wonder why
There has to be any noise at all,
When you could easily eliminate it.

And there would be no problems,
No virus,
No gum having to be scraped off their soulless soles.

But then you wonder again;

Would they even ask why?