The question we all ask.
Why.
We use this word at least thirty times,
Maybe even forty or fifty times
But when do we find the answers
To the absurd questions of why?
Why is life so unfair?
To the good, it's cruel.
To the bad, it gives mercy.
As if the guilty had unknowingly begged and pleaded
For yet another chance.
Why?
Why do good people suffer?
Why is there such a sadness in people
That makes them feel as if they should disappear
Like a wisp of smoke into the cold autumn air
That chills you to the very bone?
Why can people be so cruel and inhumane
leading them to believe that it's okay to hurt one another,
Leaving scars on their bodies and altering who they are as a human being?
Why do we hide what we feel
So we can disguise ourselves with a proud smiling face
when in reality, we are dying.
The very word is in our blood,
Or could it just be all in our head?