The question we have

The question we have
Am I good or bad
is it okay to feel this good
or that sad
why do I get so mad
and why do I still wonder

Years and years we ponder
years and years we ask
lives have asked the same
over and over again
we faced with what to do with this thing we have,
life.

Often questioning feels in vain
and guilt climbs in my heart
for why do I complain
The questions we have all before had.
But answers, answers seem to only live
with a few quiet lives
some poetry, some songs
on old vinyl and paintings, protected from mould
art, of the dead who only left us with clues
How could that simply, be true
Who can believe that life with all its questions is that simple?

You have to be you.

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