Who am I?
A terrible figment of God’s imagination;
or as I often tell myself, a mirthful lie?
Perhaps, what was meant to be discarded;
kept aside carelessly and was meant to die?
What am I?
A puzzling and perplexing pile of junk and trash;
or a weird collection of impossible thoughts?
Perhaps, a useless and wasteful hand of tarot;
each card with no picture, only stains and dots?
Where am I going?
Diving into an unfathomable abyss;
or to a destination of doom, all knowing?
Perhaps, driving down the road to hell;
the shadow of doubt, ever growing?
What is the end of what I have?
Is this just a dream, too good to be true;
or sand slipping through my grasp?
Perhaps, there is really nothing that I have;
the rope of hope, just a poisonous asp?