My notebook like a friend
Always there to listen
Always there to watch
Understanding
Sometimes I forget why I'm even here.
Just, why I do the things I do,
I forget the point.
Is there a point?
When I die
None of this will have meant anything.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
January 25th, 2009
Poem by bamboo boy at 9:10 PM
Labels: death, poem, realisations
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