Sometimes I tire
thinking about questions
with no answers.
Like

isn't it weird
how your parents will call you spoiled
for living comfortably
in the life they worked so hard
to build for you.

Isn't it weird
how the hurt you feel
losing a close friend
is almost always
followed by the realization
you are actually better off
without them.

Isn't it weird
how in a thousand years
there could be a museum with your art
or a library with your poems.
But it's also possible there may not be 
museums or libraries at all.

Sometimes I think about how
Van Gogh or Basquiat
will never know the true impact
their art had on the world.             (on me)

How did their art survive
the spread of modernity
and the superficiality of today?
Somehow their work continues
to reach people,
and really connect. 

Is it because the past is forever
doomed to repeat in the present?
Or are we all just feeling
the same insufferable pain?

Often when I meet another writer
my heart breaks a little for them.
For the pain we share.
Knowing the words come from
the despair of heavy hearts.

Like, isn't it weird
how we can create
the perfect metaphor
to explain our insecurity.
But can't manage to look
our friend in the eyes
when they ask if we're okay.

Honestly, life is weird.
You'll never find
all the answers
you're looking for and
the faster you come
to terms with that
the better.

Pensive,
Evangeline.