Who made the world?
And why make it this way?
Why am I me, not like him or her?
Why this particular part of the play?
Or why not be a leaf swirling in the wind.
Like this leaf:
The one that the fresh autumn wind blew,
The one that I fled to catch,
That I studied its wrinkled texture,
it’s veins that make out a complicated maze.
The one’s scarlet color that warmed me up
from the crisp autumn breeze.
The one that I clutched to my heart,
out of my hand fall red crispy pieces.
I’m not sure how to live.
Does anybody know?
I've been singing and playing,
dancing with the multicolored leaves.
Was I doing the right thing?
Was I doing the right thing?
Why aren't there instructions
through this puzzling maze.
Do we just wither away like the leaf?
Does everything end so soon?
All I know is minutes is precious money
and we must spend them wisely.
Tell me, how are you going to spend yours? I was board so I just did this poem :P
No comments:
Post a Comment