We’re all lost. We’re searching to get back to someplace we can call home, to that place where we were first birthed.
We originate from a womb we do not know, we’re all trying to find our way back, but with no directions.
We are directionless, but we use our hearts as direction, but, our hearts are fickle, who can understand them?
Who can we trust? Who can we call our friend?
Danger is around the corner, around every wrong turn, if we slip we fall into abyss. Sucks to be whom are called us.
I don’t want to die, how may I live? To whom my I request to grant me the honor?
No. I don’t know a darn thing, I’m just searching through this blackness, it’s a goo of origin sickness.
My foot slipped and hit a head, the fallen. I need to get around it,
but it’s so cold.
Where is my mother, where is my father?
We’re are my sisters, where are my brothers?
Where is my birther, I need to ask why he birthed me. . . Why here, and for what am I to do when,
Cold, cold, darkness in the abyss. I think I’ll lie here a while.
At least till I whither away.
But wait. . .
P: Dylan Collette