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What's The Point?

Craggy digits deftly scribble Scrambled thoughts Like snowfall on an unwilling canvas Each a unique crystalline flake A random one, a memory, a pain. Some things to remiss, Yet forcefully pervasive. Some wistful vain recollections. Scattered guilty shards Faint hope. Unwilled. Lost faith Life dotted with streaks of gray, Uncontrolled. And unexpected Reminiscent of a wistful youth An unwilling participant in this wheel Not conceived willingly. Participating towards an inevitable end No control, no choice In face, in genes, in race, in place, Just a human What was, what is, what will be What has always been It’s all the same, what’s the point?

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Tom Woody

Date: 5/2/2024 2:56:00 PM

That's the point! Life is often mundane, filled with the minutiae of daily living, and the joys and sorrows. So much to write about, so little time. Meaningless? Solomon might say so

Sara Etgen-Baker

Date: 4/20/2024 4:36:00 PM

I felt twinges of sadness as I read your poem. I felt sincere heartache when I read these words: "no control, no choice in face, in genes, in race, in place......what's the point." These words are very similar words my younger brother used as he tumbled into an occasional depression trying to find his niche in life. Sending you blessings and prayers, Sara