Brooding
Directionless, aimless,
Numbingly bored of life.
Occasionally distracted from myself,
I've always returned to brood.
I don't know what to do;
Confused...
But also the confuser.
I've lost track of what
I wanted to be.
Now I'm existing,
And living only in flashes,
Driven by no desire,
Except I mustn’t die;
I have to live on,
Not for my sake,
But for others.
But if I pass away,
What difference will it make?
I don't wish to die,
I fear the Reaper;
But who will weep at my grave?
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