Of what do I write,
Of who,
And why?
How do I sit here,
Pen in hand,
Scribbling such words as I can?
Where does this come from,
This endless curse,
Of thoughts,
Of ideas,
Of words to write with?
Why does such passion come,
To sacrifice my sleep,
My sanity?
Of what interest,
Is this bleak and thoughtless death,
This blood,
This darkness?
Is it pain that drives me?
Love?
Lust?
Or some lack thereof?
Why do these lines flow so well in my mind,
That I must share their indifference?
Of what do I write,
Of who,
And why?