What if this is the last time I write?
What if the pen I’ve kept for something nice- Just runs dry.
What would become of the notebook I still haven’t written in?

I don’t think it will ever make sense,
Dry ink and blank pages,
Early death and missed ages,
For none of us really know,
How we come to be-
And where do we go.

I don’t think it’ll ever make sense,
This game of chess-
A ruse, A pretense.
For people have said things before me,
Some better, some worse,
So, in this age of consumption;
When would one find time:
For my forsaken verse