Questions

Gag it I’ve been asking myself for three months whether I oughta’ lay this poem on you. Every day the question comes up and every day I’ve knocked it down, I’ve ignored it, I’ve pretended it isn’t important, I’ve wondered about the poem, I’ve delayed doing anything about it, I’ve forestalled, I’ve procrastinated, I’ve lazed, I’ve feigned disinterest, funked it, belaboured it. But after all that the question is still here. Should I? Ought I? I forgot dithered. I’ve dithered. If you can think of it you can do it. Loneliness, desire, fear, determination, hope, doubt.

QUESTION MARK

You sit here in your question mark shaped room, a lonely soul who can’t get to the point separated by a gap at the bottom of this squiggly line. There’s no entry

Imposter days, faking his way along
Parasites, living on the side of society
Contributing nothing, diminishing
Gentle love
Gentle love

He needs to get to that point in his question mark life
Needs to see what’s down there because he’s never been in there
It’s part of his world but why hasn’t he ever been into that area?
Been cut off, why can’t he go there?
He must and will go there
It’s getting across that gap where there’s nothing
That dot, that period under the curvy line–that thing never visited