Makitia Thompson Poet Narrative

The Question of Breath

Why am I here-
 to breathe, to ache, to stumble
 through the labyrinth of days
 that end the same way they begin?

Sometimes I wonder
 if existence is merely repetition-
 waking, eating, striving, breaking,
 all written into a cycle
 that no hand can erase.
 The stars burn their scripts into the sky,
 and still I ask:
 Do they weep for the same reasons we do?
 Do they tire of their endless roles?

Life is a question that never answers back.
 It leaves me with echoes instead,
 the sound of my own voice
 ricocheting through caverns of doubt.
 I want to believe there is purpose
 in this breath,
 in this heart that refuses to still,
 in these hands that keep reaching.

Yet purpose feels fragile,
 a glass I clutch too tightly,
 afraid it will shatter
 before I ever learn
 what it was meant to hold.

So I keep walking through the questions,
 not because I believe they’ll end,
 but because the asking itself
 is what keeps me alive.

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Justin Bordner November 21, 2025 at 6:38 PM Continued...You philosophize in a very unpretentious way Poetess, like a heartbeat that doesn't force love, it just lives with It because that's what makes life real beautiful. I think the stars admire you. "So I keep walking through the questions, not because I believe they'll end, but because the asking is what keeps me alive..." Awesome! A FAV!!...J.A.B.

Justin Bordner November 21, 2025 at 6:28 PM You sing your asking like a song of questing, washing away the wastings of What's and Why's with a winter's water of clear wise waking, so you give Life what it needs most, your absolute abandon of apprehensive submission, you are no longer timid in the thunder of truth, you are now the reason for the Question's sweat, and you are also the sanguine mercy of the Answer as to why we must first be lost before we can lead, for faith is only real in the unknown...J.A.B.