Rhetorical Life
Am I born?
Or am I dying?
Am I grounded?
Or am I flying?
It seems like questions are the only thing that feed my brain,
"Hows life going?"
"What's his name?"
I just need an answer,
An escape from this rhetorical life,
I just need to cut to the chase,
With the tip of my straightforward knife,
But what's the point in a answer,
If no one has a clue?
The sky is pink,
Funny thing is,
It isn't always blue,
Ever heard of a sunset?
Grazing upon the shore?
Chances are you haven't,
Chances are,
A sunset is just a bore,
Why is it there,
If no one bothers to look?
Why do fishes want bait,
If they know they'll get the hook?
Why do shooting stars blaze through the night sky?
Why do people ask why?
Why is my life a rhetorical question,
Begging for a straightforward clue?
Why can't I get an answer,
In this life?
And know if anything,
Is false or true?
YOU ARE READING
The Aden Grey Poetry Contest
PoetrySo Aden, for those who didn't know him, loved poetry. He was the one to get me into it. The first poem I ever wrote was for him, about him. This is something I meant to do a while ago but I kept avoiding painful memories. This is a poetry contest of...
