My margins are equations formulating open ended answers to a closed question.
I ask myself, friend?
What is that? Who is that?
Though my reply replies that I am in abundance,
I can’t help but wonder why I feel detached,
Amputated from society and fed to a void; I am circled by sentences that should have commas but are fastened by full stops.
Like this life, just a short snippet of something bigger than what it should be, a trailer of a trailer trailing to a conclusion that has no intro.
I beg not for my words to be an infinite reminder that friends,
Don’t seem to exist in this life package I was offered.